Safe At Harbor
by gutsandglitter
Summary: "A ship is safe at harbor, but that's not what ships are for" - Anonymous. Mycroft and Lestrade's relationship takes them both far outside their comfort zones. Daily out-of-order oneshot Mystrade drabbles.
1. Pizza

_Hey everyone! This is my first attempt at delving into the fabulous pairing of Mycroft and Lestrade. Please tell me what you think!_

_-Brooke_

Lestrade had mixed feelings about finding his apartment unlocked.

He had spent all day putting up with an increasingly irritating Holmes, if Mycroft was in a facetious mood Greg would probably have to throw himself out the window. He sighed and dropped his briefcase, loosening his tie as he walked towards the living room.

"My, I'm exhausted. I chased that brother of yours all over the city today and I'm not really…" he stopped short. "What on earth are you doing?"

"Being spontaneous and romantic," Mycroft answered dryly. "That's what you told me I should do. Did you know that pizza places deliver?" he asked with genuine curiosity.

Greg could only stare at the sight before him. Mycroft Holmes, "minor government employee," was sitting cross-legged on the floor next to an enormous pizza and a six pack of beer. A single red rose stood in a thin glass vase next to the open pizza box.

Mycroft furrowed his brow. "You complain when we go to restaurants where you have to wear a tie. I thought you might prefer something more casual."

"Yeah, but…" his voice trailed off. He was completely stunned.

Mycroft mistook Greg's silence for displeasure. He coughed awkwardly. "It was a silly idea," he said stiffly, standing up. "I'll leave."

Greg grabbed his arm. "You will do nothing of the sort," he said, kissing him softly. "My, this is absolutely perfect."

"Really?"

"Yes," the DI said earnestly, wrapping his arms around the other man's waist. "You're perfect," he whispered.

Mycroft bit his lip. He knew he was far from perfect, but Greg's words rang with such pure honesty that he almost wanted to cry. Instead, he chuckled, making light of it. "Greg, if I knew you were so easy I would have gone after you much, much sooner. It's just pizza and beer. Oh, and Casablanca," he added, gesturing towards the dvd on the coffee table.

Greg's eyes grew wide. "You brought Casablanca too? Okay, I take it back. NOW you're perfect."


	2. Insults

The words were spat from the teenager's lips like a flavorless piece of chewing gum.

"Fucking queers." It was just in passing, he had no intention of sticking behind his beliefs.

Lestrade rolled his eyes and squeezed Mycroft's hand tighter.

Mycroft stopped dead in his tracks.

Greg quirked an eyebrow. "My?"

He could see how tense the other man was, and was almost frightened by the look in his eyes.

"My?" he asked again.

"He called us…" Mycroft's voice trailed off.

A Holmes man was speechless. Greg knew that this was bad news.

"Come on now. Kids are ignorant, they say things." He shrugged his shoulders. "Surely you've heard worse."

Mycroft looked at him and shook his head lightly. "I've always had the utmost discretion when it came to, ah…relationships." He gestured to their intertwined fingers. "This is all new to me."

Greg felt an immense wave of pity for the man standing before him. A barrage of mental images hit him at once, what it was like for a man like Mycroft to come to terms with being homosexual. Greg had thought he had it rough, growing up on the wrong side of the tracks he had heard every variation on queer insults. But he had learned to fight, and after a while no one bothered him about it. Mycroft, on the other hand, had been to the manor born, growing up in a stiff and stuffy environment that was all about conforming and not raising eyebrows. He wondered if Mycroft had ever come out to his parents, or Sherlock for that matter. The detective looked down at their clasped hands and realized how much that simple gesture meant to Mycroft.

"Oh Mycroft," he breathed.

Mycroft bit his lip. He did not know what had possessed him to grab Gregory's hand that day as they made their way down the street. It had just happened, and their fingers fit so naturally together. He hadn't given it a second thought until that boy had insulted them. What was it about Gregory Lestrade that made him break all of his rules? Since he had let that man into his life every barrier he had carefully constructed had come crashing down at his feet. And now, he had allowed himself to become vulnerable to his enemies. Six months ago Mycroft Holmes would have found that inexcusable. And yet, as he looked into the detective's concerned hazel eyes he couldn't care less. It was a beautiful day, and he was holding hands with the man he loved.

He smirked.

Now Greg was thoroughly confused.

"What was that for?" he asked, a little worried.

Mycroft grinned and stepped closer. "Discretion is highly overrated."

With that, Mycroft wrapped his arms around Gregory's neck and kissed him passionately in broad daylight, in the middle of a crowded sidewalk.

If he was going to make himself vulnerable, he might as well make the most of it.


	3. Love

"Because I love you, you stupid git!"

Mycroft's mouth fell open.

"I mean, er," Greg stammered, wishing he could rewind the scene and take the words back.

Not that they weren't true. They were painfully true, he had known for a long time that he was completely head over heels in love with Mycroft Holmes. Also, he could be a bit of a stupid git sometimes, but he loved him all the more for it.

Mycroft was still staring, his jaw still comically slack, their argument completely forgotten.

It started because Mycroft had gone on a business trip for three days and neglected to tell his partner, who had filed a missing persons report for the politician and made himself sick with worry. When Mycroft nonchalantly showed up at Greg's flat, the DI had burst into tears upon seeing him. The resulting argument had been vicious, and had apparently ended with Greg's declaration of love.

They stood in silence for several moments, just looking at each other. Mycroft's silence hurt Greg, and he was afraid he would start to cry again. He knew it was out of the blue, but he couldn't believe he could feel so strongly and not have it reciprocated.

He took a deep breath. "If that's going to be the end of it, I think you should leave."

"Gregory, listen."

The detective crossed his arms, ready for the rejection.

"I've always been a man dedicated to his work. Even in school I never had time for crushes and such. Over the years I've had a handful of flings, but…" he trailed off, making a gesture to Greg with one hand. "Nothing of this sort."

"What are you trying to say?"

Mycroft ran a hand through his hair. "Gregory, the first time you smiled at me I nearly fell over. Ever since then, I've gotten worse. I find it hard to focus on work; I reschedule meetings with heads of state to have lunch with you. Every time I hear you talk about tracking dangerous criminals, I worry so badly it makes me ill. You are the last thing I think about before I go to sleep, and the first thing I think about when I wake up. I've never felt this way before. I've never felt as blissfully happy as I do when I'm with you." He hesitated. "I'm not really sure, but I may quite possibly be in love with you."

Greg bit his lip, determined not to cry. Instead, he let out a weak chuckle. "You aren't going to sing, are you?"

"Shut up."


	4. Date

Gregory Lestrade carried the empty plates into the kitchen. He carefully rolled up his sleeves and began to wash them, humming as he went along. He didn't hear Mycroft enter the kitchen or cross towards him.

"You really don't have to do that you know," he said, startling Greg.

"Please, you made lobster for Christ's sake. It's literally the least I could do," Greg replied. "When did you even learn to make lobster?"

"When I was about seven I was convinced our family cook was a Russian spy. I examined every move she made and followed her everywhere. My hypothesis turned out to be incorrect, but I picked up the recipes for several different dishes."

Greg snorted. "You've got to be joking."

"Oh but I'm not."

Greg paused his dish-washing and turned to the other man. "You are truly a remarkable man," he said earnestly.

Mycroft smiled and blushed. "I'm really not, you know. But I'm assuming that this was a successful first date?" he asked shyly.

Greg grinned devilishly and stepped closer. "That depends," he said wryly. "Is it over?"

"God, I hope not," Mycroft breathed.

With that, Greg closed the distance between them and pulled Mycroft into a strong embrace. He kissed him fiercely, something he had been planning to do for some time. But the feel of Mycroft's mouth pressed against his own was unimaginable; kissing him was sheer unadulterated bliss.

The dirty dishes were quite soon forgotten.


	5. Funeral

Mycroft did not let go of Greg's hand for the entire duration of the service. Greg was grateful for this, the light pressure on his fingertips provided something concrete for him to think about besides the priest's monotonous incanting over the casket of Marian Lestrade.

Their relationship had always been strained. While Greg was growing up his mother had worked two jobs, making their interactions sparse. She left before he woke up in the morning and got back shortly before he went to bed. Oftentimes she would bring a boyfriend back with her, meaning Greg had to make himself scarce.

He credited most of his raising to his older sister Diane. She had always been the one to make sure he got enough to eat and kept his grades up. She was the one to bandage him up after he got into a fight. She was the one who encouraged him to stay in school and go to college. His mother had been an incidental character in his childhood, and even less so in his adulthood.

When he was seventeen, she found out about his boyfriend Andrew. She had thrown him out of the house, and Diane had gone with him. Despite the fact they struggled to feed themselves, she still made him enroll in the local university, and later the police academy.

Despite the bad blood, Greg always kept tabs on his mother via Diane. He and Marian (it was an unspoken understanding that she was Marian to him, not mother) made small talk every year at Diane's Christmas party. Their yearly talk always ended the same way.

"Still queer?"

"Yes."

-0-

It was strange, Greg thought. He was at his own mother's funeral, and yet he could not summon a single emotion. No greif, no remorse, not even relief. Just…nothing. The woman in the box was a stranger to him.

The ceremony was a short blur, with only Greg, Mycroft, and Diane in attendance. The coffin was lowered into the ground, and Greg could only stare blankly at it.

Greg did not snap out of his daze until Mycroft whispered in his ear, "I'll be back in a moment. Will you be alright?"

He nodded, and Mycroft gently unwound their fingers.

The detective watched as Mycroft and Diane walked a short ways away and began speaking quietly. They spoke as if they were old friends, though the conversation seemed to be serious the words flowed easily between them.

The two apparently finished their conversation and there was a brief pause. Greg watched in amazement as Mycroft leaned down and gave Diane a warm hug. Greg had never seen Mycroft hug anyone besides himself, and the sight brought him as close to tears as he was going to get that day.

Diane came over to Greg and gave him a quick hug. "Do call me soon," she nagged lightly. She bid the pair farewell and left the graveyard.

Mycroft sidled up the Greg, taking his hand once more.

"Ready to go?"

Greg glanced down at the box in the ground.

"Yeah. Yeah, I am."


	6. Lunch

_Hey all! Thank you so much for reading! Please let me know what you think, any and all feedback is greatly appreciated! I also accept one-word prompts, so please feel free to leave those as well!_

_~Brooke_

Mycroft couldn't help but grin as Greg entered his office.

"Gregory, to what do I owe this surprise?"

"You couldn't make it to lunch, so I took it upon myself to make sure you got some form of sustenance today," Lestrade replied, holding up a bag of Chinese takeaway. He placed the bag on Mycroft's enormous walnut desk before circling around and giving Mycroft a quick peck on the cheek.

Mycroft sat back in his chair and examined the detective. "Gregory, I have always known you to be a generous and caring individual, but something tells me that you have an ulterior motive."

Greg blushed. "Whoever said dating a genius was easy deserves a swift kick in the teeth," he said lightly, then looked down. "Well, call me a sentimental fool, but I missed you. I haven't seen you in nearly a fortnight." He furrowed his brow. "I was sort of wondering if everything was alright between us."

Mycroft's eyes grew wide. "Of course!" he cried, grasping the detective's hands in his own.

Greg looked up hopefully.

"You sentimental fool," Mycroft said, pulling Greg into his lap.

They hugged each other tightly, and Mycroft inhaled the sweet scent of Gregory Lestrade. He smelled like coffee and soap, with a light hint of musky aftershave. The scent was so enchanting, he found himself planting a small line of kisses along Greg's jaw line, ending right behind his ear in that special place that made the DI purr like a kitten.

Greg inhaled sharply and released that low guttural sound that Mycroft found incredibly erotic. Greg ran a hand through Mycroft's dark hair and gently used it to tug Mycroft's mouth closer to his own. Greg kissed Mycroft with two weeks worth of pent-up frustration. His kisses were hungry but tender, passionate but soft.

Any lingering thoughts of work were completely wiped from Mycroft's mind. He allowed Greg to lead the kiss as he let his hands roam the DI's anatomy – across the nape of his neck, his chest, his back, his strong abdomen.

The two were so completely and utterly lost in each other that they did not register the fact that another person was now occupying the office space, until that person cleared his throat quite loudly.

The pair jumped, and Mycroft quickly wrapped his arms around Greg's waist so that the detective did not fall off his lap. The two blinked in confusion at the tall, lanky form standing before them.

Sherlock looked as blasé as ever. "Professional as always, eh Mycroft?" he asked dryly.

Mycroft could not answer, partially because of his embarrassment and partially because he was completely out of breath.

Sherlock rolled his eyes. "Well don't trouble yourselves; I'll just get the file myself." Sherlock crossed to the filing cabinet in the corner, rummaged through one of the drawers, and extracted a file. He strode out of the office without another word, shutting the door firmly behind himself.

Greg slowly turned back to Mycroft. Mycroft shrugged.

They resumed their activities; work, lunch, and siblings were soon forgotten again.


	7. Desire

_This one was a response to PlantInABoot's prompt "Desire". I'm pretty sure she was looking for some smut, but Greg's desire to just be near Mycroft turned too sweet to smut up. I promise some smut later on though. Please R&R! Enjoy!_

_~Brooke_

Distance was a cruel invention.

Greg sighed and rolled onto his side.

Though he and Mycroft had only been dating for three months, Greg was completely smitten. He hated the British government for sending his boyfriend away to France at a moment's notice. It wasn't too bad during the day, but Greg had gotten accustomed to falling asleep wrapped in Mycroft's firm embrace. His bed felt terribly empty, and he had never felt so alone in his entire life.

He turned himself over again and glanced at the clock. 2:07. He let out an exasperated snarl and grabbed his phone off the nightstand. Greg had promised himself he wouldn't be needy, but he really needed to hear Mycroft's voice, even if it was just his voicemail message.

Mycroft picked up on the first ring.

'Hello?" he said, voice husky from sleep.

"Hey," Greg whispered, embarrassed for having woken the other man. "I'm sorry, I wasn't thinking. Go back to sleep."

"Don't be ridiculous, sleep is highly overrated." Mycroft yawned. "Besides, I was just having a dream about you. While dream-you is quite interesting, I would much rather speak to the real you."

Greg grinned. "What makes me so 'interesting' in these dreams of yours?"

"Let's just say you have a certain fondness for wearing rugby shorts."

Greg laughed and made a mental note to dig out his uniform from his university rugby team days.

The line was quiet for a moment.

Mycroft sighed. "I miss you," he said quietly.

Greg's heart fluttered. "And I you," he replied earnestly.

"I'm just going to warn you right now, when I get back I don't intend on ever leaving your bed again Gregory."

"I can live with that," Greg said, stifling a yawn. Though he still lacked the physical warmth of Mycroft that he longed for so dearly, he found that the deep voice on the other end of the line was very soothing in and of itself.

They continued to talk for several minutes, until Greg succumbed to sleep mid-conversation. Mycroft smiled when he heard the familiar soft snoring through the speaker. He pressed the speakerphone button and placed the cell phone on the pillow next to him.

Though they were miles apart, at least they could pretend that they were sharing the same bed.


	8. Loss

_Based on PlantInABoot's prompt – loss._

Greg clenched his jaw so tightly it made his ears pop.

He lifted his head from his hands and surveyed his empty apartment. He had never applied the word "empty" to it before, it was stuffed to the gills with books and photographs and knickknacks and paperwork and thousands of bloody useless things.

Truth be told, it was Gregory Lestrade that should have be described as empty.

He swore loudly and kicked the coffee table.

The DI had been stabbed, shot, and beaten, and yet nothing compared to the pain he was currently experiencing.

_Gregory, I think it would be best if you and I were to not see each other anymore. _

How could someone be so cool and eloquent while breaking another's heart?

Greg snorted. Mycroft Fucking Holmes, that's who.

Mycroft Fucking Holmes.

Greg was completely lost. His own mother had died a month before, and he had barely batted an eyelash. But when Mycroft, his infuriating boyfriend of nearly a year, breaks up with him he goes to pieces. Nine days had passed, and the pain was only getting worse. Greg had never felt this kind of misery. He felt as if there was a physical piece of him missing,

He tried to imagine what life was like before that man had walked in though his door, demanding access to Sherlock's personal files. Nothing.

It was as if Mycroft had written himself into Greg's past, he had become such an essential part of who Gregory Lestrade was that Greg could no longer define who he was as an individual.

He lay back on the sofa and fell into an uneasy slumber, his dreams haunted by umbrellas and black cars.


	9. Safe

Mycroft had slept approximately five hours in the past two weeks. His head swam and his eyes ached, but he pressed on.

"Anthea, my God, please tell me you have good news," he asked with an exasperated sigh.

If Mycroft was worse for the wear, his secretary was on death's door. She had been inadvertently shaking all day; her Blackberry had been long since discarded as she couldn't maneuver the tiny keypad anymore.

"Sir, I told you. The team is to report to you directly after their mission is successful," she said in a cracked voice. "We're still waiting on the final three."

Mycroft ground his teeth and went back into his office where he began to pace.

Mycroft was known for always retaining his composure, no matter what the situation. Sherlock had always been the one prone to emotional outbursts, Mycroft had been the thoughtful one who sat back and planned his next move. But this was entirely too much for him. When his department had received intelligence that a terrorist organization was planning on executing both Gregory Lestrade and Mycroft Holmes, the latter had lost all of his Holmes composure.

Mycroft had ordered the hit on all twenty-seven confirmed members of the organization without any hesitation or remorse. The part that truly distressed him was knowing that he had put Greg's life in danger. Mycroft had known the risks involved, and yet he had pursued the other man. And he had allowed himself to be so blatantly obvious about their relationship too – he winced as he thought about that day on the street, when for a lark he had thrown caution to the wind and snogged Greg. That lark had put Greg's life in danger.

It had been the only rational thing to do. It wouldn't matter once these men were dead, there would just be more. Mycroft made dozens of new enemies every day, and as long as there was something in this world they knew he loved they would stop at nothing until that something was dead and gone. Gregory Lestrade's life would be altogether better and longer without Mycroft Holmes.

At least that's what he kept telling himself. He couldn't shake the memory of Greg's face after those awful words left Mycroft's mouth. It was an expression Mycroft had often seen when he went to visit Greg at crime scenes, on the faces of the victim's family. The look of someone who's lost everything they hold dear in life. To be quite honest, Mycroft felt the same way.

Mycroft sunk back in his chair and placed his head in his hands.

"Mister Holmes!" Anthea shrieked as she threw open his office door. "They did it. They did it!" she repeated with a small sob. The exhaustion had completely destroyed any sense of professional manner she had once had.

Mycroft sat upright. "Are you sure?"

"Yes. They emailed me photographic evidence." She blanched. "It's not pleasant, but you'll see that they are the right men." She gestured towards his computer.

He turned towards it and opened the new email. "Not pleasant" was a serious understatement, but Mycroft did not care at that moment. For now, Greg was safe, and that was all that mattered.


	10. Okay

Greg had never wanted a cigarette more in his entire life. His hands were shaking and his nerves were like raw meat, despite the three nicotine patches on his left forearm.  
>"Why the fuck not?" he asked himself. Lung cancer couldn't be any worse than his current hell.<p>

He grabbed his wallet and made his way out of the flat, onto the cold London street. It was past midnight, but he was able to find a cab relatively quickly.

He mumbled his destination to the driver and sat back, closing his eyes.

Several minutes later, the car stopped and Greg's eyes flew open. He tossed some money at the driver and stepped out.

To his confusion, he was not at a liquor store. He was standing outside Mycroft's apartment building. His mind ran over the cab ride, and he realized that this was the address he had given the cabbie.

He snorted. Freudian slip much?

But instead of turning around and looking for another cab, he found his feet working their way towards the building. Through the doors, up the stairs, down the hall, up to Mycroft's door. His right hand shot out of it's own accord and furiously knocked on the door, while a voice that was not his own yelled "Open up you stupid git!"

The door opened, and there was Mycroft in his blue silk pajamas. His eyes were bloodshot and his hair was sticking up in the back and oh God he was so beautiful.

"Gregory, what is it? What's wrong?" his voice was still thick with sleep, but his concern shone through. He moved aside to let Greg into the flat and shut the door behind them.

"What's wrong?" Greg yelled, somewhat hysterically. "What's wrong? I'll tell you what's wrong. You unceremoniously dumped me out of the blue and now I'm going fucking insane!" he bellowed.

"Gregory, I told you. It's for the best that we stay apart," Mycroft said gently, although the words broke his heart.

"What does for the best even mean?" Greg asked hoarsely. "We were good together. I loved-hell, love you, and I thought…" he paused. "I thought you loved me."

Mycroft's eyes grew wide. "Of course I love you!" he cried.

Greg's eyebrows shot up. "Oh. Um. Okay. Well, why did you break up with me?"

Mycroft sighed and sank down into the sofa. "Gregory, if anything ever happened to you because of me or my stupid minor government position," he said, adding air-quotes to the last three words. "I would never be able to forgive myself. Something happened that made me realize what a dangerous position I put you in. I just can't risk your life like that. You deserve someone who can keep you safe, make you happy." He let out a shuddering sigh that sounded like a harbinger for tears.

"Oh My," Greg whispered. He knelt down in front of the other man, taking his hands.

"No one could possibly make me ay happier than you have. And don't talk about this like our relationship is something you forced upon me. I'm a grown man, I knew and know full well what I've gotten myself into." He chuckled. "And I am a DI, it's not as if I was just sitting around baking scones before you came around. Remind me later to tell you about the time I was stabbed by a one-eyed meth addict."

Mycroft tried to laugh but it came out as a violent sob. All the emotions from the past few weeks came pouring out of him at once.

"Hey, hey," Greg soothed, sitting on the sofa beside Mycroft and wrapping his arms around him. Mycroft melted into the embrace, clinging to the front of Greg's jumper as if his life depended on it.

"I'm sorry. I'm so sorry." Mycroft repented.

"It's okay," Greg said as he pressed a soft kiss to Mycroft's forehead.

And it was okay. Where Mycroft Holmes was willing to kill for Gregory Lestrade, Gregory Lestrade was willing to die for Mycroft Holmes.


	11. Happiness

_Thank you guys so much for the feedback! Reviews are sweeter than Mystrade kisses! _

_This one is based on PlantInABoot's prompt, happiness._

Mycroft stood in the shadows, watching.

He watched as Greg Lestrade surveyed the scene, gave orders to his team, gently examined the body. He watched as the DI wearily drew out his cell phone and began texting Sherlock. He watched as Greg's eyes moved from the phone in his hands, as they moved up and up to connect with Mycroft's own.

Greg's smile was dazzling. The warmth in it was enough to make Mycroft's face feel hot, despite the fact he was standing several meters away. Mycroft shyly returned the smile.

Greg looked back down at his phone and finished typing, and Mycroft could have sworn the traces of a grin were still lingering on his perfect face.

Mycroft sighed and leaned on his umbrella. This was getting ridiculous, he felt like a schoolboy with a crush. It was pointless too, there was no way Detective Inspector Lestrade would be attracted to someone like Mycroft Holmes. They were just friends, that was all. They had found solidarity in their feelings for Sherlock; equal parts loathing and concern.

Greg finished his text and began walking over to Mycroft. Mycroft straightened up and sucked in his stomach a bit, feeling incredibly foolish.

"You know, I'm flattered that you take time off from your minor government position to come watch me work," Greg said with a smirk. "But don't you think it would be more practical to just ask me out already?"

Mycroft's jaw dropped, and a handful of random syllables escaped his lips.

"Friday, eight o' clock?" Greg asked.

Mycroft snapped his jaw back into place. "Yes, yes. That sounds…lovely."

Greg smiled again, and Mycroft's heart fluttered.

"See you then." Greg winked and walked back to the crime scene.

It took every ounce of Mycroft's good breeding to not kick up his heels with joy.


	12. Flowers

_Be sure to R&R, reviews are sweeter than chocolate and flowers from Greg Lestrade._

_Based on the prompt "flowers" by PlantInABoot._

Greg once made the mistake of buying chocolates for Mycroft.

"Gregory, you know I'm on a diet."

Greg rolled his eyes. "I don't understand why you are. You aren't even close to being overweight."

Mycroft huffed. "False flattery will get you nowhere in life Gregory."

"It's true! Look at you, you're gorgeous."

Mycroft opened his mouth to protest, but Greg shut him up.

"Besides, you fit perfectly in my arms," Greg said softly, enveloping Mycroft into a loving embrace.

The chocolates still went uneaten; Greg didn't see it worth fighting over.

The next day, Mycroft stepped into his office and was greeted with the sweet smell of roses.

A dozen red blooms stood tall on his desk, with a small note attached to the stem of the vase.

_Hopefully you like these better than the chocolates. Zero calories._

_XOXO_

Mycroft smiled and pulled out his cell phone. Greg answered on the first ring.

"So, what do you think?" Greg asked breathlessly.

"It seems you have forgotten that I suffer from severe hayfever," Mycroft responded dryly.

"What? Oh hell…I'm sorry My."

Mycroft laughed. "I'm kidding. They're beautiful Gregory."

Greg chuckled over the line.

"Although," Mycroft drawled, "I do have to protest at the x's and o's."

"Yeah, they're a little grade school I'll admit."

"That's not what I meant. Written hugs and kisses from you are no comparison to the real thing."

The line was silent for a moment.

"I'll be there in five."


	13. Ex

This was going to be okay.

Greg would never admit it to Mycroft, but he was actually enjoying himself despite the black tie dress code. The stuffy gala was not Greg's idea of a dream date by far, but he was really touched that Mycroft was willing to bring Greg as his date to such a public event, especially since they had only been dating a few months.

Five, to be exact. Five months, two weeks, three days and sixteen hours. Math had never been Greg's strong suit, but he could calculate the duration of their relationship almost to the second. It seemed childish, but he cherished every minute that he was able to call Mycroft his own.

Just as if Mycroft could sense this thought crossing Greg's mind, he leaned in close and whispered that he was going to track down whoever was in charge of distributing alcohol and see if he could get anything stronger than champagne. His breath tickled Greg's ear and Greg was able to get a good whiff of Mycroft's cologne which was completely intoxicating.

"I'll wait here," he whispered in reply.

Mycroft winked and set off on his mission.

The detective surveyed the crowd absentmindedly. He did not hear the shuffle of wingtip oxfords behind him, and nearly jumped out of his skin when a familiar voice spoke behind him much too close for comfort.

"Well, well, well. Of all the gin joints in all the world, I never expected to see Gregory Lestrade in a place like this," the voice drawled.

Greg sucked in his breath and closed his eyes. "Hello David." He slowly turned around to view the man standing behind him. Greg was dismayed to realize his ex looked exactly the same as he had the day they had parted. He was tall and thin, with an angular jawline and feathery dark hair that fell in his eyes.

Greg winced as he remembered the last time he had seen David, the detective had come home from a double shift to find the man he loved in bed with another man AND a woman. David had not even been repentant; he had just shrugged and said "Shit happens." That had been three years before, although the exact date was not something Greg was willing to calculate.

David leered at Greg. "Damn, were you this sexy when we were shagging?"

Greg felt cornered and terribly upset. "David, you can go fuck yourself."

The other man's eyebrows shot up. "Harsh words coming from such an upstanding citizen. I heard you made Inspecting Detective. Still helping catch them baddies, eh?"

"Detective Inspector," Greg spat.

David licked his lips. "I always did like a man in uniform," he said, stepping closer to Greg.

There was a small pause, which was interrupted by Mycroft's cheery "I found the real drinks, love." He pressed what looked like a scotch and soda into Greg's hand. "I don't believe we've met. Mycroft Holmes," he said, extending a hand towards David.

David uncomfortably shook Mycroft's hand. "David Helm."

"Delighted to meet you David," Mycroft said, in a tone that suggested he was anything but. The politician placed his hand on the small of Greg's back in a subtly territorial gesture.

David looked at the placement of Mycroft's hand with disbelief. He gaped for a moment before muttering "I gotta go," and darted away.

Greg slumped slightly in Mycroft's embrace. "," he said in one breath.

"Ex-lover?" Mycroft asked.

Greg snorted. "Unfortunately, yes. Broke my heart and made my life a living hell, then hits on me in a place like this.

Mycroft didn't say anything but kept his hand on Greg's back.

"My? I'm completely over him if you're wondering. He's a prick of the highest order."

Mycroft snorted. "Sherlock did not get all of the Holmes deduction skills in utero Gregory. I could see both those facts quite plainly. It just pains me to think of someone hurting you in such a way," he said quietly.

"Hey," Greg said, turning to face his partner. "That's all behind me. I'm with you now, and you make me so spectacularly happy that any unpleasant memories are all but completely forgotten." He kissed Mycroft then, softly and discretely. When he pulled back, he assessed that the other man's fears had been adequately assuaged.

"Now come on. You promised me a dance," he said, gently taking Mycroft's hand and leading him towards the dance floor.


	14. Sentiment

Mycroft Holmes had never been one for sentimentality.

He had been raised in a proper environment which discouraged excessive sentiment and emotions. Holmes Manor was a very stark environment, it was filled with antique furniture in the most pristine condition; the only fluff the Holmeses had allowed in their décor were books. The library had never been big enough to hold all of the books they owned, so the family had gotten creative with the storage of books. The books were the only thing that would make someone believe that people lived there, without them it was as cold and lifeless as a museum.

Mycroft had decorated his flat with the same intentions. All of his furniture was thoroughly modern with a sleek black and grey color palette, and he refused to have any knickknacks of the sort. He hardly spent any time there, as he was at work most of the time, so he did not see any reason for it to be any other way.

Greg's flat, on the other hand, was crammed with sentimentality. It was always untidy, and he owned very few books. Above his mantel there was a ship in a bottle that his grandfather had helped him build when he was ten, which Greg wouldn't have parted with if his life had depended on it. He still had his ragged teddy bear from childhood, and the front of his fridge was covered in finger-paintings that his niece and nephew had made for him. He had a shoebox full of thank-yous from citizens he had helped over the years under his bed, and a photo of himself and Diane when they were children sat on his nightstand. His college diploma hung above his old tv with the broken antenna. Mycroft saw all this as useless clutter, although he would never tell that to Greg.

Being in a relationship with Gregory Lestrade had caused some profound changes in Mycroft. His life no longer revolved around work, he allowed himself to smile and laugh in public. He had realized that being human was not necessarily a weakness. He was happy.

But his flat remained the same. An outside observer would not be able to tell from his flat that in the past year Mycroft's life had been completely turned around.

The only evidence of this change was in Mycroft's immaculate bedroom, on the nightstand beside the freshly made bed with the white satin sheets.

On the nightstand stood a small framed picture of Mycroft and Greg. John Watson had taken it on his phone, so it was a little blurry, but Mycroft couldn't care less. The pair was on the sofa at John and Sherlock's flat, laughing about something that wasn't all that funny in retrospect. Mycroft was caught in the middle of wiping away tears of mirth, and Greg was looking at the politician with pure unadulterated love in his eyes.

Mycroft considered himself an eminently practical man with no patience for sentimentalities, but he would cherish that picture until the day he died.


	15. Christmas

"Happy Christmas!"

Diane's smile outshone any holiday light display.

"You came!" she cried, wrapping her arms around Greg's neck as he struggled to balance the packages in his arms. She turned to Mycroft and gave him an even bigger hug.

"Mycroft darling, I'm so glad to see you. I apologize in advance for our family," she added bashfully.

Mycroft chuckled as they made their way into the living room, where Greg was nearly bowled over by a young boy and girl.

"Uncle Greg!" they yelled as they hugged him.

"Are those for us?" the little girl asked excitedly, pointing towards the packages. "Maybe, maybe not," Greg teased.

Soon Mycroft was introduced to everyone, and he tried very hard to remember all of their names. The only ones that stuck were the members of Diane's family, which he deemed were most important to Greg. There was her husband Christopher, her son Jaime, and her daughter Clara, and they all seemed to love Greg more than anything else in the world.

Clara seemed to have become very attached to Mycroft over the course of the day. She followed him around the house with a curious expression on her face, asking him over and over again what it meant for one to hold a "minor government position."

"Yeah My, tell us what that means," Greg said playfully.

Mycroft shot him a half-serious look.

Greg laughed. "Oh come on My, lighten up." He planted a kiss on the politician's cheek.

"I have lightened up! When your aunt pinched my backside, did you see me complain?"

"Yeah, sorry about that. Nellie tends to get a bit tipsy at these things."

Greg looked down at his watch. "Hell, when did it get so late?"

Diane looked down at her own watch. "Time flies, doesn't it?"

Greg leaned back on the sofa and stretched. He and Diane had been talking for over an hour over a bottle of wine. Greg looked down at the now-empty bottle and watched it as his vision made it spin lazy circles on the floor.

"Remember when Gran would throw these things and we'd nick a bottle of brandy and get plastered?" he asked.

Diane chuckled. "That was a long time ago. But you're still a terrific lightweight, even more so than when you were fifteen I'd expect."

He gave her a playful shove and then glanced around. "Where did Mycroft get to?" He had completely forgotten about his partner.

"Last I saw, Clara was leading him into the study," she replied, slurring on the word 'study'.

Greg maneuvered his way to the study but stopped short in the doorway. Mycroft was sitting on the leather sofa reading aloud from the book in his lap, Clara was fast asleep and using his shoulder as a pillow.

Mycroft looked up at Greg and put a finger to his lips, warning him not to wake her.

At that moment, Greg's heart swelled with love for Mycroft Holmes. The sight of the uptight politician reading _The Velveteen Rabbit_ to Greg's niece as she slept was absolutely the most beautiful thing Greg had ever seen.

Greg tiptoed across the floor and kissed Mycroft softly on the lips.

"What was that for?" Mycroft whispered.

"For being you."


	16. Favor

"Gregory, I need a favor."

"Sure love, anything." Greg balanced the phone between his shoulder and ear as he scribbled his signature on an arrest report.

"I need you to do a drugs bust on Sherlock's flat."

Greg's hand jerked, smudging the L in Lestrade.

"What was that?"

Mycroft sighed. "I have reason to believe he's been using again. John Watson came to me the other day expressing concerns, and I feel that he knows better than anyone."

Greg pinched the bridge of his nose between his thumb and forefinger. If John was willing to go to Mycroft, it was serious indeed.

"Gregory, it's our only option. We've tried rehabilitation facilities and the like, but nothing has worked. At least if you found drugs in his flat you could lock him up for a bit, keep him safe and sober."

Greg hesitated. As much as he griped about Sherlock, he was actually quite fond of the sociopath. He almost considered him a friend. Arresting him on a drugs charge would ruin his relationship with his consulting detective and, he thought, the man who quite possibly could be his future brother-in-law.

It was the tone of Mycroft's voice that decided it. He had never heard his lover sound so small, so desperate. Greg's heart ached for the man.

"Alright. I'll get a team together and be there in a few hours."

-0-0-0-

"Okay guys, this isn't just a blackmail thing. This is for real, give it one hundred percent."

Anderson and Donovan were like giddy schoolchildren.

He gave the order and the team barged into the flat.

Sherlock leapt from the sofa and began hurling obscenities at Anderson. Mid-insult, his eyes locked onto Lestrade's and he stopped short.

"I should have known," he said with a sneer. With two strides he was nearly nose-to-nose with Greg. "Now that you've knocked your skull against Mycroft's headboard a few times you've become a little lapdog for the government. Typical. That fucking hypocritical snake of a-"

He never got to finish that thought. Greg's fist collided with Sherlock's jaw with a spectacular crack, knocking the detective to the ground.

"Don't you ever insult Mycroft Holmes in my presence," Greg growled. "He's spent his entire lifetime cleaning up after your mistakes and making sure you don't get yourself killed. Show some goddamned respect."

He looked up at Anderson, who was staring at Greg with equal parts admiration and fear.

"Anderson, I'm putting you in charge. I've got better things t do than hang around a pathetic junkie's flat."

Anderson nodded and saluted Greg. Greg smirked and exited the flat.

He couldn't be sure, but the expression on Sherlock's face almost seemed to be one of respect.


	17. Poem

_So I was re-reading my favorite poem the other day and decided it was perfect for Mycroft and Greg. It's called The Love Song of J. Alfred Prufrock by T.S. Eliot, and if you haven't read it before I highly recommend it. I do not own the poem, or Sherlock. I don't even own a car for that matter._

_~Brooke_

The pair lay wrapped in each other's arms, perfectly contented.

Greg ran his finger across Mycroft's chest, tracing his collarbone lightly. He had something on his mind, but wasn't quite sure how to ask, or why he wanted to ask for that matter.

He finally decided it was worth asking; if he offended Mycroft it could be easily remedied, as they were already lying naked in bed together.

"What did your family do for fun?" he asked.

"Hmm?"

"When you were a kid, on ordinary nights. I'm having a hard time imagining your family gathering around the telly to watch Doctor Who."

Mycroft laughed lightly. "We didn't even own a television when Sherlock and I were growing up. If by some miracle the four of us were all together in the evening we would either discuss politics or recite."

"Recite what?"

"Poetry, of course."

"Oh, of course," Greg said sarcastically.

They were silent for a moment.

Greg raised himself up on one elbow so he could look Mycroft in the eye.

"Recite something for me."

"Beg pardon?"

"I want you to recite a poem for me. "

Mycroft was silent for a few moments; Greg took this to mean his request was denied. He sighed and laid his head back on the pillow.

"_Let us go then, you and I, when the evening is spread out against the sky, like a patient etherized upon a table. Let us go, through certain half-deserted streets, the muttering retreats of restless nights in one-night cheap hotels and sawdust restaurants with oyster-shells…_" Mycroft spoke slowly and carefully in that rich deep voice Greg loved so much. The detective was delighted; he smiled and scooted down so that he could rest his head on Mycroft's chest. He listened as the words were created and expelled through Mycroft's lungs and throat.

"_In the room the women come and go, talking of Michelangelo_…"  
>Greg had never been fond of poetry; he had always dreaded having to read it in school. He loved it coming from Mycroft though. He yawned and closed his eyes, and within a few stanzas he was fast asleep.<p>

"_Do I dare disturb the universe? In a minute there is time for decisions and revisions which a minute will reverse…"  
><em>Mycroft felt Greg's breath turn to his light snoring, but he did not stop reciting. It had been ages since he had recited the poem aloud, and he was absolutely transfixed by it. He had always been a T.S. Eliot fan, but had never fully understood the poem until now. He had never taken risks with his personal affairs; he had never had anything worth living for. Now that he did, the bittersweet words meant more than ever. He looked down at the silver-haired man sleeping in his arms. In that moment, everything was perfect. Every decision he had made with hesitancy, every quick remark and bitter regret was completely and utterly worth it for this moment alone. Mycroft finished the last haunting words in the poem and kissed the top of Greg's head.

_And would it have been worth it, after all,  
>Would it have been worth while,<br>After the sunsets and the dooryards and the sprinkled streets,  
>After the novels, after the teacups, after the skirts that trail along the floor—<br>And this, and so much more?_


	18. Snow

"Are you sure you still want to go?"

"Yes, yes. Of course," Mycroft answered, though his eyes never left his mobile.

Greg rolled his eyes and locked the flat behind him.

He tried to make conversation in the lift, but Mycroft just replied with noncommittal noises as he tapped away on his phone. Greg rolled his eyes again and stopped trying.

When he swung open the main door to his building, a blast of cool air hit him in the face. He closed his eyes and breathed deeply, enjoying the early winter chill. He surveyed the snow-covered lawns before him and grinned. As a boy he had always loved winter, it was his favorite time of year.

He nudged Mycroft. "Isn't it lovely?"

"Mmm, quite."

Greg clenched his jaw. "Alright, let's just get going."

He allowed Mycroft to walk in front of him, and suddenly Greg was struck with an idea.

He quickly leaned down and gathered a handful of snow. He allowed Mycroft to get several paces ahead of himself before he let the snowball fly. It hit Mycroft square in the back.

The politician froze and Greg held his breath, waiting for a reaction.

"Really Gregory, you can be such a child sometimes," Mycroft chided, not turning his back or looking up from his phone.

Greg swore loudly and kicked a nearby lamppost. He was so distracted by the offending lamppost that he did not see the ball of white being thrown in his direction until it collided with his face.

He looked up, completely shocked, to see his lover facing him with a devilish grin on his face and a second snowball in his non-umbrella hand. The Blackberry was nowhere to be seen.

"Never start a war with the British government," Mycroft said gleefully, chucking the second snowball for Greg's stunned face. He managed to duck this one.

"You're going to get it!" Greg yelled playfully, dashing after Mycroft.

The pair spent the next hour running around the grounds, thoroughly engrossed in their snowball fight. Eventually they had to report for their respective duties of solving horrific murders and running a government, but for an hour they were able to forget all that. For an hour the politician and the Detective Inspector were able to drop their titles and relive their childhoods.


	19. Go

The phone on the nightstand buzzed, the screen cast an eerie glow throughout the darkened bedroom.

Mycroft sat up straight and answered it robotically.

"Mycroft Holmes speaking."

Greg yawned and rolled onto his back.

"Sorry," Mycroft mouthed.

Greg rolled his eyes.

"I'll be right there," Mycroft said before hanging up the phone. He ran a hand through his hair and swung his legs over the edge of the bed.

Greg grabbed his arm. "Don't."

"Gregory, I have to."

"No you don't. It's three in the fucking morning, you don't have to do anything. Please," he begged. "Stay here."

"I can't."

"You can."

"I can't!" Mycroft yelled.

Greg was taken aback. Mycroft never raised his voice.

"Don't you see?" Mycroft asked. "I can't. People depend on me."

"I depend on you!" Greg shouted. "I need for us to just be able to lie here through a whole night like a normal couple."

"Gregory, we are not a normal couple."

Greg snorted. "Gee, how'd you deduce that one?"

Mycroft ran both his hands through his hair in exasperation.

In that moment, Mycroft looked like a small child. His hair stood on end and his face was red and ruddy from the combination of sleep and shouting. It was annoyingly endearing.

Greg let out a heavy sigh.

"Okay. Go."

"Gregory, please don't be like that."

"No, I understand. You have to go, so go. Another night alone isn't going to kill me."

Mycroft's expression was pained. "I am so, so sorry love. I promise I'll make it up to you." He leaned down and kissed Greg on the forehead.

Greg frowned but didn't say anything.

Mycroft got off the bed and began getting ready.

Greg let his head fall back on the pillow as he listened to the soft rustling sounds of Mycroft dressing.

The politician finished and crossed towards the door but paused with his hand suspended over the knob.

"I love you Gregory."

At first he was only met with a painful silence, but Greg finally grumbled, "Yeah. I love you too."

Mycroft nodded and exited the flat.

Greg clenched his teeth together as he allowed the tears to fall onto the pillow beneath his head.


	20. Late

"Seriously My? You couldn't even be on time for our anniversary dinner which you planned yourself?" Greg crossed his arms and looked out the window at the passing streetlamps.

Mycroft sighed. "The President of the United States was on the line, I couldn't very well just hang up mid-conversation." He crossed his legs. "Tony, could you please give me an ETA?"

"Five minutes sir," the driver said coolly.

"See? We're only going to be about fifteen minutes late on our reservation. No harm done." He glanced over at Greg, who was still pouting. "Okay, harm done. I suppose we could just cancel and I could take you home," he said quietly.

"No. I stood in the lobby for my building for a full half hour, like a stood-up prom date. The least you could do is buy me dinner." He had meant the last part to be light, but it came out bitter and vitriolic.

He looked over at Mycroft, who looked like a wounded puppy. Greg sighed. "It's okay," he said, reaching over and squeezing Mycroft's hand. "You stupid git," he added affectionately. Mycroft chuckled.

They reached the restaurant only fourteen minutes late, and Mycroft ran around to open Greg's door for him. This made Greg grin broadly; he got out of the car and took Mycroft's arm. They walked towards the door, and Mycroft's hand connected with the burnished bronze door handle right as the clock stuck 8:15.

The small device strapped to the bottom of their reserved table made a clicking sound before it ripped the restaurant apart with a spectacular crack followed by an intense wave of flames.

The force of the explosion threw the pair backwards into the black abyss of the November night.

_To be continued…_


	21. Beach

Greg was standing on a beach.

The white sand stretched for miles, as far as he could see. The waves gently rolled in and out, caressing the shore.

It took him a few moments to place his surroundings. He had been here before, with Diane. When they were teenagers they had decided to ditch school and go to the beach. That was years before, but Greg could still remember that adventure with great detail. The thrill of doing something so naughty gave Greg an adrenaline high that had lasted throughout most of the day. It was one of his fondest memories from growing up.

The beach had been crowded that day, full of other teenagers with the same idea. Now it was empty and peaceful.

Greg closed his eyes and turned his face up towards the sun, basking in its warm glow. He wiggled his bare toes in the silky soft sand and gently exhaled.

Somewhere in the distance, a seagull cried. Greg had never been fond of birds, and he had always found seagulls especially irritating. He opened his eyes to look for the damned thing, but saw nothing but the vast white shoreline. He shrugged and stretched his arms, allowing his shoulders and back to crack.

The seagull cried again, closer this time. Greg craned his neck around but still could not see the bird. The third time it cried, it was incredibly close, the noise shook Greg down to his core. He looked around for the bird, bewildered as the water receded from his vision and the beach began to swim and bend. The sun was gone and there was a frightening shadow crossing Greg's location.

He tried to run but his feet were stuck in the sand, which was no longer soft. The grains of sand were like needles, digging into the soft flesh of his heels.

The bird cried again but it wasn't a bird, it was a human voice. It had been all along.

"CLEAR!" the voice yelled, and Greg's body convulsed and jumped with the force of the electric current.


	22. Hospital

Mycroft opened his eyes and quickly shut them again.

Light. Blinding white light. Pain.

He braced himself and opened them again. He was in a completely unfamiliar room, filled with unfamiliar sights and sounds.

He felt groggy and heavy, his head felt like it was stuffed with cotton.

"Ah, good. You're awake."

Had he possessed any reflexes at all in that moment, he would have jumped a foot and a half in the air. As his reflexes were comparable to that of a dead cow, he could only allow his head to loll to his right, towards the unfamiliar female who had escaped his notice. She turned and began adjusting his IV bag.

IV bag.

His IV bag.

He was in a hospital.

As a patient.

With an IV bag.

These thoughts entered his mind one at a time over the course of the next minute.

"What am I doing here?" he finally managed to ask. His voice sounded almost unrecognizable. It was small and soft, with a bit of a wheeze to it.

"That's our question as well. With what you've been through, any and all logic says you should be dead."

"What have I been through?"

She looked at him for a moment. "You and your friend were at a restaurant and a bomb went off. Police say it was some kind of terrorist attack."

Restaurant.

Bomb.

Fire.

Friend.

Greg.

_Greg._

Mycroft lurched forward. "Where is he?" he asked, adding panic to his wheezy voice.

The nurse's eyebrows shot up. "Who?"

"Gregory Lestrade! Where is he? I have to see him!" Mycroft threw the blankets off himself with one stiff arm and attempted to stand up. He became tangled in the IV line and went crashing to the floor. The nurse yelled something he couldn't understand as he tried to stand up. His muscles didn't want to move in the ways he wanted them to, and he flailed on the floor for a few moments before three strong orderlies flocked to him, trying to lift him up.

Mycroft kicked and swung blindly.

"I demand to see him!" he yelled, as the nurse stuck a needle into his bicep.

"I am the bloody British Government! I'll have your jobs if you do not…" he began to slur, "let me see him at once. I'll…I'll have you all locked up…have you thrown in the…in the Tower of London…"

The orderlies eased him back onto the bed and fixed his IV.

"Please," he whispered.

The nurse bit her lip and looked away.

"Gregory," he whimpered, as the world went black.

_To be continued…_


	23. Relief

_So I'm not sure if I mentioned it before, but none of these have been Brit-picked. I'm not really familiar with British hospitals (Write what you know? HA!) so please let me know if my terminology is incorrect. _

_~Brooke_

Mycroft awoke, still rather groggy but at least his head felt clearer.

He cast a wary eye around the hospital room and groaned when he saw the nurse from before, scribbling something on his chart.

"Oh goody, it's you," he snarked. His voice sounded clearer and much more like his own, which was a sheer delight.

She frowned and quirked an eyebrow. "I can sedate you all over again, you know."

He chuckled and held up a hand. "I apologize…" he glanced down at her nametag. "Serena. Not exactly feeling myself."

She nodded. "I don't doubt that."

He looked down at himself and began to assess his injuries. "Let me see. Dislocated shoulder, punctured lung, fractured left wrist and" he raised a shaky hand to his head, prodding tenderly. "Some sort of head trauma, for which I have been given spectacular painkillers."

Her eyes widened and she clapped for him. "That's some party trick. Yeah, you got yourself a nasty concussion but we were able to keep the swelling down so there's no major damage there, although I think your football days are over."

He looked at her. "You're wearing a different set of scrubs and your eye makeup has changed." He took a deep breath, which stung a little. "My lung has taken significant steps towards healing itself already, so I have been here approximately a week."

She nodded. "Eight days." She looked him up and down. "Who on earth are you? First you come in here and the police are saying it's an assassination attempt, then those two big blokes station themselves outside your door and granting clearance for people to enter your room. Are you really the British Government?" she asked the question in a nonchalant manner, she had obviously seen just about everything during her employment at the hospital.

Mycroft smiled. "I hold a very minor position in the British Government," he said dryly.

She snorted.

He laid his head back on the pillow but jerked it up again when a thought hit him.

"Gregory!" he exclaimed. "I have to-" he looked at her. "I mean, I need to see him. I don't seem to have sustained any injuries that would severely impair my walking. Please, let me go to him."

She opened her mouth to protest but he cut her off. "Serena, please. I- he's my whole world. I love him."

Her face was pained as she chewed on her lip. "I really shouldn't, but…" she sighed. "Oh hell, alright. But if your health worsens or you hurt yourself again I'll go to my grave swearing I knew nothing about this."

"Thank you Serena."

She helped him to his feet and allowed him to lean on her as he gathered his sea legs. As if she had been summoned, Anthea came into the room with his dressing gown and slippers. He smiled at her and allowed her to help him into them.

The women helped him shuffle out into the hallway, past the two men in black stationed at the door. They looked worried for a moment, but Anthea made a gesture and they stood down. The three slowly made their way to the ICU.

Mycroft's heart sank as they walked past bed after bed filled with deathly ill and injured people. The nurse stopped suddenly and Mycroft nearly tripped over his clumsy slippered feet.

She pointed towards the bed in front of them and Mycroft's heart tightened in his chest.

Gregory Lestrade lay in the bed, completely motionless. His right arm was wrapped in a thick cast, in traction. His face was sallow and bruised, and even his hair seemed dimmer in color.

The nurse began rattling off his injuries, but Mycroft barely heard her. He made out a few recognizable words like _internal bleeding_, _resuscitation_, and _emergency surgery_ but the only thing that stuck was "We aren't quite sure how it's possible, but we expect him to very nearly make a full recovery."

With that, Mycroft shrugged off his escorts and crossed to the bedside. Tears stung at his eyes, but he didn't bother wiping them away.

He reached down and took Greg's hand, raising the battered knuckles to his lips.

Greg's eyelids fluttered open and slowly moved up the length of his own arm before making eye contact with Mycroft. The corners of the detective's lips twitched upwards as his eyes slid closed again. He squeezed Mycroft's hand almost imperceptibly as he drifted off, which caused Mycroft to weep tears of pained relief.


	24. Blotter

Mycroft made a point to visit Greg every day, even after he himself had been discharged. He worked his schedule to revolve around these visits, and made sure to bring a vase of fresh flowers every three days, so they wouldn't even get close to wilting.

Though the doctors assured him that Greg was improving in leaps and bounds, Mycroft found it hard to believe. He wanted to be able to take Greg out to dinner, he wanted for them to be able to go dancing. He wanted for them to be able to do every single little thing they had put off for another day, because they had come so close to not being able to have another day together. He wanted to spend the rest of his waking life with Greg.

-0-0-0-

Mycroft was in his usual place at Greg's bedside, reading the newspaper. Greg had the sports section and the police blotter. Mycroft found Greg's dedication to his work, even in his current condition, incredibly endearing.

"Christ," Greg said, running a hand through his hair.

Mycroft flipped his paper down so that he could see his bedridden partner. "Hmm?"

Greg gestured to the police blotter in his hands. "Man gets back from the store to find his wife committed suicide. No note or nothing. Says her last words to him were "We're out of milk."" He shook his head sadly. "I mean, how could you do something like that without saying goodbye?"

Mycroft was at a loss for words. The pair sat in silence for a moment, until Greg reached out and gripped Mycroft's hand.

"You know, in that split second before everything went black at the restaurant my last thought was 'I can't die now. I can't die knowing my last words to My were _you stupid git._" He tried to chuckle, but coughed instead. "When they resuscitated me – which, lemme tell you, looks all cool in the movies but is really like being woken up from a nice nap by having someone set your skin on fire – but, when they resuscitated me I really felt like someone had heard me, you know? Like someone or something out there was like 'You get back down there and tell that beautiful man how much you love him, tell him every single day without fail. Then maybe we'll see about letting you two grow old together.'"

He looked up at Mycroft, who had tears in his eyes. "I love you Mycroft. I love you more than I can ever say."

Mycroft opened his quivering lips. "I love you too Gregory. I don't know what I would ever do without you."

He stood up and kissed Greg, gently, because Greg's battered face was still healing. He leaned his forehead against Greg's and the pair sat in silence for a moment, both internally thanking whatever it was that had managed to keep them alive after the explosion.

A small sniffling noise from the corner made them both jump lightly and break apart. They had completely forgotten that Anthea had been sitting in the room the whole time, tapping away at her Blackberry. Her Blackberry was now in her lap, and she was furiously wiping at her eyes with the back of her hand.

"What?" she mumbled. "That was the most touching thing I've ever heard in my life. I'm not made of stone."


	25. Practical

_Okay, this is the last of the chapters dealing with the after-effects of the restaurant explosion. Thanks for sticking through this decidedly not fluffy bit of Mystrade (I swear, I had not intended for it to get that dark, it really got away from me). After this chapter I'm going to go back to jumping around in time, so if you guys have any scenes you would like to see please let me know, I love getting prompts!_

_~Brooke_

"Oh for heaven's sake!"

"It's hospital policy."

"It's ridiculous!"

Mycroft smirked.

Greg let out an exasperated sigh. "Fine. If it gets me the hell out of here."

He let the nurse ease him off the bed and into the wheelchair.

"I can take it from here Serena," Mycroft said, still wearing his shit-eating grin. He grasped the handles of the wheelchair and pushed Greg out of the room.

Greg muttered something under his breath.

"Oh come on," Mycroft said, running a hand through Greg's silver hair. "Don't make me push you down the stairs."

Greg reached a hand backwards and swatted at Mycroft's hand, then let his fingers settle on Mycroft's wrist affectionately.

They spent the rest of the journey out of the hospital in a comfortable silence. When they reached the exit Greg smiled at the familiar sight of Mycroft's black company car with the silhouette of Anthea in the passenger-side window.

Greg leaned into Mycroft's shoulder to stand up, and together they hobbled to the car.

Once inside, Greg leaned into the dark leather and sighed heavily.

Mycroft cleared his throat as the car began to move.

"Gregory, I have a proposition for you."

Greg opened his eyes and looked at Mycroft, shooting a quick glance at Anthea and quirking an eyebrow.

Mycroft let out a loud guffaw. "No, nothing of that sort."

Anthea's ears turned pink and she typed on her Blackberry with increased vigor.

"Gregory, I know that this has been a hard time emotionally, and I know that since the accident our relationship has been altered so I completely understand if you don't want to but," he paused and bit his lip. "I would like very much if you would move in with me."

Greg blinked a few times.

"It is actually closer to the yard, and my building has an elevator which would be good if you do end up with a limp after your leg heals," Mycroft added hastily. "It seemed practical to me but –"

"Yes."

Mycroft faltered. "Er, what?"

"Yes, I will move in with you."

Mycroft's slack-jawed expression turned into a giddy grin, which he quickly stifled. "Excellent. As I was saying, it is really the most practical situation because – "

"Because we love each other and I don't want to spend another bloody night without you in my arms," Greg finished.

Mycroft blushed slightly. "That too."

"C'mere you." Greg leaned in and kissed Mycroft deeply. Mycroft reached a hand up and caressed the back of Greg's neck. They allowed themselves to forget the pain of the past several weeks.

They kissed for several minutes before Anthea cleared her throat loudly.

They broke apart, although Mycroft kept his hand firmly on the back of Greg's neck.

Anthea kept typing away at her phone.

"Oh come off it. We're on to you. You think we're adorable," Greg teased.

Anthea rolled her eyes and continued to type.

Greg snickered and turned back to his adorable lover to pick up where they had left off, despite the PA's protests.


	26. Meet

_Just realized that I never showed their first meeting. Decided to remedy this. :)_

_~Brooke_

"Don't look now, but we've got company," Sally hissed.

Greg glanced up from the clipboard in front of him, only to get an elbow to the ribs.

"I said don't look!"

"Ouch, sorry. Who is it?"

'Some government spook. Nelson stopped him at the checkpoint and the guy whips out his ID, Nelson says he's like the British government.

"Hmm," Greg mumbled, only half listening. He was in the middle of the crime scene for a triple homicide, he didn't exactly have time for some suit telling him what to do.

Still, he caught himself casually looking up from his clipboard to survey the visitor. His breath caught in his throat.

Standing several meters away was a tall, slim man in a smart suit. He leaned on the handle of his black umbrella like a walking stick, watching the crime scene sweep with a bemused expression on his face.

He wasn't gorgeous by any means, no. But there was something so powerful about his posture and stance that drew Greg in. The man's eyes moved to Greg, and Greg felt his face warm. He feigned writing something on his clipboard, although he could still feel the man's piercing blue gaze.

He stared at the papers before him and forced himself to focus. It took several minutes, but he was finally able to put those blue eyes out of his mind. He barked orders to his team and sent several text messages to the lab assistants. It was going to be a long night for everyone.

A few minutes passed and Greg felt himself settle into his groove, until he felt a small tap on his shoulder.

He turned and found himself face-to-face with the blue-eyed man.

"Erm, can I help you?" he asked uneasily.

"The young woman is only wearing one earring, which means that her ex-boyfriend's mother is the killer. Check the expiration date on the milk in her fridge, that should give you satisfactory evidence, I should think," the man said dryly.

"I – what?" Greg asked.

The man smirked. "You heard me, Detective Inspector Lestrade." He gave a small nod and turned on heel, leaving a thoroughly perplexed Greg behind.


	27. Airport

Greg felt like a proper twat, to be honest.

Mycroft's flight was running late, and Greg was left looking like an idiot, standing in the middle of Heathrow with a sign that read "Holmes".

It had originally seemed like a funny idea, but he was now realizing that it was more prat-ish than anything. He sighed and ran a hand through his hair.

Mycroft had been away for three weeks, but it seemed like years since Greg had seen him. Their phone conversations had been few and far between, and Mycroft had always sounded hurried on his end. Greg knew it had been a tense and stressful trip, but he had found himself worrying slightly about the possibility of Mycroft losing affection. They had been dating for nearly eight months, and Greg had never felt happier in his life. But Mycroft was always so professional, which sometimes translated to being almost cold, it was really hard for Greg to get a read on him.

He bit his lip and checked his watch again, then looked up just in time to see Mycroft come through the gate. He looked tired, but Greg could not imagine a better sight.

He grinned broadly and began walking towards Mycroft, still holding his sign.

Mycroft saw him and burst out laughing. Greg picked up his pace to a light jog.

They met in the middle of the airport.

"Hey," Greg said breathlessly.

"Hey yourself," Mycroft said, wrapping his arms tightly around Greg. Greg's feet lifted slightly off the ground with the force of the hug, he dropped his sign as he returned the embrace.

"God, I've missed you," Mycroft said, burying his face in Greg's shoulder.

Greg's heart leapt. "Yeah, I guess I missed you some too," he teased.

They finally allowed themselves to break apart.

"Oh Anthea, I definitely missed you," Greg said, grinning at the sullen-looking PA. She let out an irritated huff.

"If you need me sir, I'll be in the car," she said, with more than a touch of bitterness.

"Very good. And you're more than welcome to take a few days off of you like. You definitely earned it after that – erm, unpleasantness with the Prime Minister's bodyguard."

She made a face but didn't comment before she left for the car.

Greg quirked an eyebrow.

"Let's just say he was a bit handsy," Mycroft said.

"Aw, poor thing. You should give her at least a week off for that."

"Please Gregory, don't be ridiculous. If I took a week off every time someone made a pass at me during a meeting of the United Nations I wouldn't have worked a day since 1997."

Greg had no idea what to do with this information, but the familiar mix of confusion, jealousy, and arousal was something he hadn't felt since Mycroft had left.

He smiled awkwardly, which made Mycroft laugh. "Remind me why I ever leave your side?" he said, lacing his fingers with Greg's.

"Well, my gran always used to say that absence makes the heart grow fonder. I'm not sure about my heart, but I think it's given me carpal tunnel in my left hand," Greg said with a wicked smile.

Mycroft's cheeks turned pink and he cleared his throat. "Well we'll just have to fix that, won't we?" he said with a husky whisper.

The pair giggled like schoolgirls as they walked out of the airport into the midday sun.


	28. Drunk

Blue light filled the room, Mycroft grabbed his phone and answered it before it had time to start buzzing.

"Mycroft Homes speaking."

"Heeeeeeey My – Mycroft," Greg slurred.

"Gregory? Is something wrong?" Mycroft sat up in bed and switched on his bedside lamp.

"Nah, everything's fantastic really," he said before hiccupping. "Me and John went to the pub to watch the match, you know John's a really great guy I don't really know what he sees in your brother. Oh, no offense My, but you know how he can be." At least that's why Mycroft thought Greg said, he couldn't be sure because it was all terribly slurred.

Mycroft smiled. "Gregory, you sound rather intoxicated right now."

"Naw, I'm totally fine. So listen, I'm outside your flat right now. Any chance you could let me in?"

Mycroft rolled his eyes and got out of bed. "You could have started with that, you know."

Greg giggled.

Mycroft hung up his phone and went to open his front door.

Greg stood unsteadily before him with bloodshot eyes and rumpled hair. Even completely pissed he still looked devilishly handsome.

"Oh Gregory," Mycroft chided lightly, allowing the other man into the apartment.

"You aren't mad at me are you? I don't want you to be mad at me. I really don't drink much, honest. You aren't mad, are you?"

"Of course not. I'm actually finding this quite amusing," Mycroft said with a smirk.

Greg smiled dopily and walked over to Mycroft, giving him a big hug. "I love you Mycroft," Greg said, nuzzling Mycroft's pale neck.

Mycroft chuckled. "I love you too."

They held each other for several moments, until Greg hiccupped violently.

"Gracious, how much did you have to drink?" Mycroft asked, stepping back and guiding Greg to the couch.

Greg flopped down and then attempted to count on his fingers. He stared at his extended fingers before shaking his head. "No clue."

Mycroft ruffled Greg's hair, and Greg leaned into his touch. "I wonder how our friend Mr. Watson is doing right now," Mycroft mused.

"Aw, he's alright," Greg said with a yawn. "He's got Sherlock,' doesn't he?"

"Yes, I suppose he does."

Greg let his head slide down Mycroft's arm until it settled onto the politician's chest.

"Just like I've got you, right My?"

Mycroft looked down at the inebriated detective and wrapped his arms around Greg's slim frame. Greg sighed contentedly.

"Yes, Gregory. You've got me mind, body, and soul."

He felt Greg smile against his chest, and soon the detective was snoring softly.

Mycroft rested his cheek against Greg's hair and whispered softly, "And I'm taking this to mean that I've got you too." Hearing no protest, only the gentle sounds of Greg's snoring, Mycroft allowed his eyes to drift closed.


	29. Parents

Sherlock sullenly glared at Greg across the table. He hadn't forgiven Greg for punching him in the face during the drugs bust, and he had acted like a stubborn child all night.

As if Greg wasn't uncomfortable enough. Holmes Manor in itself was intimidating, but meeting Mr. and Mrs. Holmes was proving positively nerve-racking.

Mrs. Holmes was a pleasant, very well dressed woman who loved her boys more than anything. Mr. Holmes was cold and distant, with a handshake that had nearly broken Greg's wrist. He hadn't said more than three words to anyone since dinner had begun, while his wife hadn't paused for breath since Greg had arrived. Greg was eerily reminded of his police academy training when the instructors had taught them the "good cop – bad cop" tactic.

"Oh, it's so nice meeting my boy's friends! " Mrs. Holmes exclaimed a little too loudly after an awkward lull in the conversation. Greg winced, that was the other thing. She kept referring to Greg as Mycroft's "friend", like they were schoolmates or something.

Greg smiled and nodded as politely as he could.

"And Gregory, darling," she said, reaching for Greg's hand. He let her take it, while shooting a small panicked glance at Mycroft, who looked just as perplexed as Greg. "I just can't thank you enough for giving my Sherlock a job at Scotland Yard. He has such…unique talents, I'm so glad he gets to put them to good use." She smiled warmly at Greg. He took this as a good sign.

Mr. Holmes made an irritated sound. "Yes, running through dark alleys with a handicapped doctor. Great use of his caliber of intellect."

Sherlock looked pained at this statement, he looked down at his lap and didn't say anything in response. Greg felt pity for the sociopath. Sure, his job wasn't exactly the type parents loved to brag about, but there was nothing else he could possibly do that would keep him sane.

"Well with all due respect sir, I think that's pretty harsh."

All eyes turned towards Greg. Mrs. Holmes dropped his hand as if it had burned her. Sherlock's head jerked upwards.

He looked around and cleared his throat. "Well yeah, it's unusual. But I mean, he uses his deduction powers or whatever they are to save lives. Did he tell you about last week, when he saved a bus full of schoolchildren from an international terrorist? I can't even make this stuff up. London would be much worse off if it weren't for your son Sherlock."

The room was silent. All eyes had gone from Greg to Mr. Holmes, who was staring at Greg hard. Greg swallowed hard, he had totally blown it.

Mr. Holmes furrowed his brow. "Bus full of schoolchildren?"

Greg nodded dumbly.

Mr. Holmes pondered this for a moment. He looked at Sherlock. "That's not bad son. Not bad at all."

Sherlock gaped a little. "Thank you," he said to his father shyly.

He glanced at Greg and quirked the corners of his mouth upwards in thanks.

"Well," Mrs. Holmes said, expelling the breath that she had been holding. "Shall we adjourn to the living room for coffee or brandy?"

"Yes dear," Mr. Holmes replied. "Then Sherlock can tell us some of these cases he's worked on. You never told us anything about them. At least Mycroft has the excuse where if he told us about work he'd have to kill us, but you on the other hand have no such luxury." He clapped Sherlock on the back as they walked to the living room.

Greg got up from his chair, flabbergasted. Mycroft came around to his side of the table and waited until the others had departed before giving him a quick peck on the lips.

"That was astounding," Mycroft said. "I have never seen anyone take on Stavrick Holmes before in my entire life."

"I didn't mean to – Stavrick? Jesus Christ, where do you all get your names from?"


	30. Babysitting

"I feel awful about this, but I'm going to have to cancel tonight. Diane's babysitter flaked so the kids are going to stay with me tonight while she and Chris go see Phantom of the Opera."

Mycroft let out a heavy sigh on the other end of the line. "I'm getting stood up because of your sister's Andrew Lloyd Webber fixation?"

Greg chuckled. "Seems like it."

"But I haven't seen you in nearly a week," Mycroft whined.

"I know love, I'm sorry. I mean, unless you want to help babysit…" his voice trailed off.

"Would Diane be alright with that?"

"Er, what?"

"Would Diane be comfortable with your boyfriend helping you babysit her children?"

"Well of course, she loves you. I mean, I'll double check but…are you sure? I didn't think kids were really your thing."

"I'm rather fond of children actually, and Diane's children are particularly lovely."

"Oh. Well alright then, if you insist."

-0-0-0-

Mycroft showed up that evening in a button-down and slacks, without a tie or waistcoat which was his idea of casual.

Greg and the children answered the door.

"Hey kids, you remember my friend Mycroft right?"

Jaime hid behind Greg's legs shyly, but Clara rushed up and hugged him. Mycroft smiled and hugged her back, the sight of which made Greg go slightly weak in the knees.

Clara stepped back for a moment and eyed Mycroft thoughtfully. "Wait. Mummy said you were Uncle Greg's boyfriend, but he just said you were friends. Did you two have a fight?" she asked, with a touch of worry.

Mycroft looked at Greg, who looked too stunned to say anything.

Mycroft knelt down so that he was at eye level with Clara. "Well we haven't had a fight to my knowledge. Your mummy is right, I am Greg's boyfriend."

"Oh good," Clara said, looking relieved. "Does that make you our Uncle Mycroft?"

Mycroft laughed and looked at Greg, who shrugged. "Yes, you may call me uncle if you'd like."

The little girl beamed and hugged him again. She pulled back and tugged on his hand. "Come and draw pictures with me Uncle Mycroft!"

For the next few hours the foursome drew pictures and played games. By the end of the night even Jaime had warmed to Mycroft, calling him "Uncle" once or twice.

At around nine Clara began fighting off yawns while Jaime struggled to keep his eyes open. "Alright, I'm thinking it's off to bed with you two," Greg announced. The children protested weakly, but allowed their uncles to ready them for bed.

The pair tucked the children into bed, but Clara refused to sleep without a bedtime story.

"And Uncle Mycroft has to read it," she said, crossing her arms. "He does all the voices. You never do the voices Uncle Greg."

Mycroft shot a look at Greg. "Gregory, you don't do the voices? I'm ashamed of you!"

Greg rolled his eyes as Mycroft took his place at the side of Greg's bed where the children were nestled. Clara handed him her tired copy of The Velveteen Rabbit, and he obligingly took it and began reading. He actually did do the voices for the different characters pretty well, Greg mused to himself.

The children were fast asleep by the time Mycroft had finished. He closed the book quietly and gazed at the sleeping children. Greg tiptoed over to the bed and tucked the covers around the pair , ruffling Jaime's hair. He placed his had on Greg's shoulder, squeezing lightly.

Mycroft covered the hand with his own, stroking Greg's fingers lightly.

"You would make an amazing father My," Greg said quietly.

Mycroft looked up at Greg. "We would make amazing parents."


	31. Rain

He had been lying when he had told Donavan he was alright. He was the opposite of alright. A six year old girl had bled out in his arms and there had been nothing he could do to save her.

Bethany. Her name had been Bethany.

He sat on the hood of his police cruiser staring dejectedly at the crime scene in front of him, making no effort to shield himself from the freezing rain falling on his face. Someone had put a blanket around his shoulders, probably as a joke, but he couldn't be arsed to shrug it off.

He dug the heels of his palms into his eyes, trying to erase the mental image of Bethany's face as she had been shot. In a flash of a moment the look of childlike fear had been replaced by the ageless expression of someone who knows they are dying.

He was so lost in thought that it took him several moments to realize that the rain had stopped pelting him. He took his hands away from his eyes to see Mycroft standing before him extending his umbrella to cover Greg.

Greg let out a soft sigh that mingled with a repressed sob as he allowed himself to lean forward into Mycroft, who kissed his brow and wrapped his arms around Greg's quivering frame.

They stayed like that for a long time, knowing full well that the moment they let go of each other they would be back in the real world, where terrible things happened to innocent people. But under the cover of Mycroft's umbrella they were able to create a sanctuary, find the eye of the storm, and have a few chance moments of peace.

Their respective entourages made sure that everyone kept their distance for as long as possible. Sally Donavan assumed charge of the crime scene operation while Anthea began flirtatiously texting the American Secretary of State to draw attention to Mycroft's lateness for their meeting.

It was understood that this moment was more important than anything else. This pair sacrificed everything to keep the world running smoothly and for once they were given a sliver of thanks in return.

_I'm kinda at a loss for plot bunnies lately (although I'm still working on Greenie's, don't go thinking I've forgotten you.) Also, did I just create a Hilary Clinton/Anthea ship? Yes, yes I did. Deal with it. _

_~Brooke_


	32. Breakdown

_Inspired by the lovely Greenleaf's Daughter! _

"Greg, I need your help."

"Anthea?" Greg straightened up in his chair and pressed the phone closer to his ear. "What is it, what's wrong?"

"It's Mycroft, I don't know what to do. Please come quickly."

-0-0-0-

"Thank God you're here," Anthea said, giving Greg a quick hug. Greg knew the gravity of the situation in that moment. Anthea rarely acknowledged his existence, and had never come into physical contact with him before.

"Where is he?"

She pointed to Mycroft's bedroom, which Greg entered timidly.

"My?"

The figure lying on the bed gave no response. He was huddled on his side, facing away from the door.

"He's been like this for four days. There was a hostage crisis and things went south and a dear friend of Mycroft's was executed. I mean, these things happen, but something was different this time. I've been Googling his symptoms and I think it's acute stress disorder…" her voice trailed off.

Greg nodded solemnly. "Has he eaten recently?"

"Not a bite. He hasn't done anything but stare at that wall."

Greg nodded, and then frowned. "Hang on, I was texting him last night. He seemed alright to me."

Anthea looked down guiltily. "I've taken it upon myself to handle all correspondence in Mr. Holmes's…absence."

Greg's face flushed. "But I said-"

Anthea made a face. "Yeah, it wasn't exactly a picnic."

Greg was at a loss for words. "Erm, could you put the kettle on or something?"

"Gladly," she said, exiting the room.

Greg tiptoed over to the bed and knelt down beside the figure on the bed.

"Hey," he whispered, stroking Mycroft's cheek.

Mycroft's eyes fluttered open. He stared blankly at Greg for several moments before he began to weep softly.

"Hey, hey. Shhh," Greg cooed. He took Mycroft's hands in his own and gently kissed his knuckles. "I'm here, it's okay. It's going to be okay."

_To be continued…_


	33. Power

"Okay, c'mon. Time to get up."

Mycroft continued to stare blankly, but let Greg help him up and lead him to the bathroom like a child. Greg drew him a bath and got him in without protest.

He dug through Mycroft's cupboards and found some body wash that cost more than Greg spent on his weekly groceries and lathered a loofah with it.

He sat on the edge of the tub and began washing Mycroft's back. Mycroft leaned into Greg's touch and made a soft sighing noise.

Greg massaged the sweet-smelling product into Mycroft's skin for several moments before timidly asking "Mycroft, what happened?"

Mycroft went completely rigid but didn't say anything. Greg figured he wouldn't get an answer, so he continued to wash his lover.

Greg jumped slightly when Mycroft spoke.

His voice had a rasp to it, and he quivered as he began to speak.

"My colleagues and I were called to an emergency meeting, which was nothing new. But there was a live video feed…" he paused as his body violently shivered. "Three of our superiors were on it, bound and gagged. They had been kidnapped by a terrorist cell who were asking for a ransom, I don't even remember what."

He took a deep breath. "I was the highest in command, so I took charge of the situation. I gave the usual spiel about how Britain does not negotiate with terrorists," his words were growing fainter now and he was clutching the sides of the tub so hard his knuckles looked a pearly white. Greg knew it was taking everything in Mycroft to keep going, so he continued to rub his back soothingly.

"They listened politely and then asked me if I was sure. I didn't even hesitate, I said yes immediately and-" his voice cracked. Greg could tell there were tears running down Mycroft's face, but he couldn't bring himself to stop the story.

"They beheaded them. Just like that, on camera. No warning."

Greg gasped and he brought a soapy hand to his mouth.

Mycroft turned his ashen face towards Greg. "It's all my fault," he whispered, his voice hollow. "Cribbins, his wife just gave birth to their first child not even a month ago. That baby doesn't have a father because of me." He began to cry again, the sobs racking his body and echoing off the marble-tiled walls of the bathroom.

Anger flared through Greg. One of Mycroft's central characteristics was his power, not just in the government but in the way his very presence commanded the attention of whatever room he occupied, the way he always seemed to be one step ahead of everyone else. The idea of some lunatic being able to turn Mycroft Holmes into a small, scared infant make Greg quake with anger.

"Listen," he said sharply, catching Mycroft's chin and pulling it so they were nearly nose-to-nose. "You did not kill those men. You are in no way responsible for what happened. If it had been you that was taken and one of them making decisions, they would have done the exact same thing. There are sick fucks in this world and through your job you seem to meet the worst of the worst. This is an absolute tragedy, don't get me wrong. But do not think any less of yourself because someone else died at the hands of a demented terrorist. They may have taken Cribbins from his wife and child but I will not have them take you from me in this manner."

Mycroft stared up at Greg with wide eyes, bewildered.

Greg continued. "You are going to get out of that tub and change into a fresh pair of pajamas and then go straight back to bed. I'll have Anthea make you something to eat with your tea."

Greg was an odd mix of commanding and nurturing that Mycroft could not refuse. He did as he was told.

_To be continued…_


	34. Soup

Greg entered the kitchen and was hit with a wave of inviting smells,

Anthea was standing over the stove, wearing an apron and stirring something in a large pot.

"What's all this?" Greg asked incredulously.

Anthea turned and blushed. "I didn't really know what to do to help, so I decided to make mock turtle soup. My mother always used to make it for me when I was upset and it always seemed to make me feel better."

Greg grinned. "Come here." He stepped forward and gave her a bear hug. "I'm so glad Mycroft has you," he said quietly. "With you I feel like I don't have to worry as much about him.

She hugged him back tightly. "Funny, I always think the same about you."

They broke apart and Anthea resumed stirring the soup. Greg busied himself with setting the table for three.

After a few minutes Mycroft shuffled in, wearing the silk pajamas Greg had left out for him and looking very lost. He peered at the clock on the wall, which read 9:08pm. He stared for a few moments before asking "What day is it?"

"Thursday, sir," Anthea said quickly.

Mycroft started, as if he hadn't seen her. He nodded vaguely. "Thursday," he repeated.

She nodded. "Would you like some soup sir?"

He blinked several times. "Soup," he said as he sat down.

Anthea exchanged a glance with Greg as she set a bowl down in front of the politician.

She held her breath as he wearily spooned some of the soup into his mouth. He allowed it to roll around on his tongue for a few moments before swallowing. There was a pause, then he looked up at her and gave her a small smile.

"My mother used to make this when I was a child," he said dreamily.

From across the room, Greg grinned and gave Anthea a thumbs-up.

Anthea exhaled. "So did mine. I hope you like it."

He nodded and turned back to his meal. Anthea served Greg and herself, and the trio ate together in a comfortable silence.

Once they were finished eating, Greg and Anthea did the dishes while Mycroft stared contemplatively at the wall.

"Would it be at all possible for you to clear about a week in his schedule?" Greg asked the PA quietly.

She nodded. "Already done."

Greg smiled wryly at her. "Clear your own schedule for the week as well. You more than deserve the break.

"Thank you sir."

"None of that 'sir' stuff with me, I'm not signing your paychecks. Greg's fine."

"Thank you Greg."

Greg glanced over his shoulder at Mycroft's stony frame. "I think I'll take him to the Holmes's summer place up in Brighton, fresh air'll do him good, don't you think?"

'I should imagine so, yes."

"You're welcome to come too, if you want."

She chuckled. "Thanks, but you two could use some time alone. The fewer reminders of work he has right now, the better. Speaking of which," she said, drying her hands on a towel, "do you mind if I take off? I feel like he's much more responsive to you."

Greg nodded. "Of course, I'll take it from here."

"Thanks."

She turned towards Mycroft. "Sir, I'm going to leave now. Is that alright?"

Mycroft jumped at the sound of her voice.  
>"Erm, yes, quite. Yes yes, you may go."<p>

She grabbed her coat and left.

Greg walked over to Mycroft and placed his hands on the man's broad shoulders.

"Come on love, time for you to get some proper rest."

He took Mycroft's hand and led him to the bedroom.

Mycroft was still in his own little world and allowed Greg to tuck him into the king-sized bed.

Greg stood up and made to move away from the bed, but Mycroft caught his hand desperately.

"Please, please don't leave me," Mycroft begged, his eyes wide with fear.

Greg ran a thumb over Mycroft's knuckles. "I wouldn't dream of leaving you love. I'm just gonna borrow a pair of pajamas, alright?"

Mycroft bit his lip and nodded as he let go of Greg's hand. Greg changed quickly then returned to the bed. He climbed in and scooted close to Mycroft, wrapping himself around his lover, as if his physical presence alone could protect the wounded man.

And for a while, it could.

_Again, thank you all for sticking with me! I think this is going to be the last chapter dealing with Mycroft's breakdown, so it's going to be back to jumping around in time now. Reviews are like sweet Mystrade snuggles on a cold night._

_~Brooke_


	35. Jealousy

_Based on Greenleaf's Daughter's prompts: jealousy, Sherlock, siblings._

_Takes place during earlier chapter, Rain._

* * *

><p>Sherlock sneered bitterly. He couldn't believe that everyone was tiptoeing around Greg and Mycroft's disgusting display of affection. They were canoodling on top of a police cruiser in the middle of a crime scene, which was nauseating.<p>

A little girl had died in a gang shooting and everyone on the scene was distressed, including the high-functioning sociopath, and yet they seemed perfectly at ease in the middle of the chaos.

"Aw look, the freak is jealous," Sally Donavan snarked behind him.

"I beg your pardon?" Sherlock said nastily, spinning around so quickly that his coat slapped at his thighs.

She narrowed her eyes. "Jealous. You. Of your brother," she said slowly, as one would talk to a mentally handicapped child.

"I most certainly am not," he replied indignantly.

She rolled her eyes. "Uh-huh. Sure."

"Speaking of jealousy Sally, I heard that Mrs. Anderson is pregnant again. Tough break."

"Fuck off freak!" she spat, turning on heel and stalking off.

Sherlock sneered again and resumed his survelance of Mycroft and Greg. Mycroft was now cradling Greg's face in his hands and whispering something undoubtedly sickeningly sweet to the DI.

Jealous of Mycroft. Psh. Sure, there were times he wished his social skills were as smooth as Mycroft's. He had wondered how Mycroft had stolen all the charm in utero while still having an intelligence level far above the plebeian norm. Yes, Sherlock was still infinitely more intelligent and observant, but sometimes he wished he could say things and not offend everyone in the general vicinity. Especially John. He would have gladly sacrificed several of his precious IQ points if it meant he wouldn't hurt his doctor again.

He felt a pang of emotion as that thought crossed his mind. Though he would never admit it, he did wish he could comfort John the way Mycroft could comfort Greg. He had never felt the need for that sort of empathy, but John made him wish he was more human in the emotions department.

He bit the inside of his cheek and looked over towards John, who was speaking to the head of forensics, looking very solemn. He longed to be able to take John's face in his hands and whisper sticky-sweet nothings to him, just to be able to see his blogger smile.

Fucking hell, he was jealous of Mycroft.


	36. Zoo

_Set after our lovely pair moved in together. From here on out I think I'll stick to writing after the whole hospital incident, I'm only confusing myself (and, I suspect, a few of my dear readers) by jumping back and forth. So unless I say specifically otherwise from now on just assume they're living together and whatnot. Thanks!_

_This chapter based on columbine-and-asphodel's prompt: "Mycroft and Lestrade at the zoo. After hours. Just enjoying each other's company and talking about their favorite animals and why they like them."_

_~Brooke_

* * *

><p>Greg flopped down on the couch.<p>

Mycroft eyed him from over the top of his paper.

"Bored," Greg mumbled.

"Read a book."

Greg snorted.

Mycroft turned the page of his paper.

Greg rolled onto his side so that he could watch the politician. "We should do something."

"Like what?"

"I don't know, anything."

'Gregory, it's nine o' clock in the evening. Where do you suggest we go?"

"I don't know, but you're the British government. I feel like our options are wider than others. Mind if I look through the contacts in your phone?"

Mycroft flipped his paper down and gave Greg a stern look. "No, not that again. Remember last time?"

"Okay, give me some credit. I didn't think you actually had the Queen's mobile number. Why does the Queen even have a mobile?"

"Not for Detective Inspectors to prank call her, that's for sure."

"If I promise not to call or text any members of any royal family will you let me look through your phone so that I can find something fun to do with you? I mean, I want to grow old with you My, but we don't exactly have to get a head start on it."

Mycroft rolled his eyes as he dug his Blackberry out of his pocket and tossed it to his lover on the couch.

Greg eagerly began scrolling through the contacts, sucking in his breath from time to time, and occasionally commenting on them.

"Please tell me that this is not actually Kim Jong Il's home number."

"Why on earth are you just sitting here reading a paper when you've got David Tennant on speed dial?"

"When it says B. Obama does that mean…"

After several minutes he found one that made his eyes light up. He highlighted the number and handed the phone back to Mycroft. "This is what we're doing tonight."

"Good evenin' Mr. Holmes sir, good ta see you sir," the tiny old man in the coveralls said.

Mycroft nodded politely. "Good evening."

"All the keepers 'ave gone 'ome for the night, so you'll 'ave the 'ol place to yerselves," the man said, giving them a nearly toothless grin.

"Thank you. We'll be sure to lock up after ourselves."

The man nodded and handed Mycroft the keys. "'Ave a good night you two!"

The pair walked through the gates and looked out at the park.

"You know, when I handed you my phone I can honestly say that this is not what I imagined. I would have thought you would have leaned more towards grabbing a pint with Stephen Fry, not going to the London Zoo after hours," Mycroft grumbled. "Really Gregory, are you five years old?"

"You bet," Greg said with a grin. "Come on you cradle-robber, let's go see the tigers." He laced his fingers with Mycroft's and set out in search of the large cats.

They strolled hand in hand through the abandoned park, stopping here and there to see the various animals on their nightly escapades. By the time they reached the Sumatran Tiger exhibit, Greg could have sworn that Mycroft was enjoying himself.

"Oh, look at that," Greg breathed, leaning on the guardrail outside the exhibit.

One of the felines was stalking around the perimeter of her enclosure, her eyes glowing in the moonlight.

"Tigers were always my favorite," Greg said quietly, continuing to watch the animal pace in her enclosure. "I don't even know how to explain it. They're just so mesmerizing, you know? Like, they demand your attention. You can't even look away from them, they're so powerful."

Mycroft nodded thoughtfully.

"Over the years I've found myself drawn towards the wolves personally," he said thoughtfully.

Greg quirked an eyebrow. "Really?"

"Yes. I've always admired their fierce loyalty to one another, their families and partners." He smiled wryly. "I've learned to appreciate that sort of fierce loyalty after years in a minor government position. Although," he chuckled, "I do enjoy watching the otters play."

Greg laughed and rested his head on Mycroft's shoulder. "Oh, the prices people would pay to hear the great Mycroft Holmes say that."

Mycroft laughed out loud. "You're really quite rotten, you know that?" He turned his head so that he could gently nuzzle Greg's silver hair.

In the darkness, a pair of luminous eyes watched over the detective and the politician as they began to stroll towards the wolf enclosure.


	37. Driving

_Based on Greenleaf's Daughter's prompts: driving, Ireland, Harry Potter_

* * *

><p>"Oh, would you quit being such a stick in the mud? This will be fun!"<p>

"I highly doubt that."

Greg made a face as he closed the boot and crossed to the passenger-side door. "Look, since you dislike driving so much you can take the first shift and drive as little as you want, then I'll take over."

"I don't dislike driving. I just dislike it in cases where air travel would be imminently more practical. The flight from London to Dublin is quite short, and we wouldn't have to worry about catching ferries and all that nonsense."

"But where's the fun in that? There's no sightseeing, no adventure. Good vacations don't start with miniscule bottles of alcohol and some stranger falling asleep on your shoulder."

Greg swung himself into the car, and Mycroft begrudgingly got be hind the wheel of the black sedan.

Once they were out on the motorway, Greg reclined his seat a bit and looked out the window. "See, could anything be better than this?"

"Well, seeing as we could probably be enjoying a nice post-flight shag in our hotel right now had we decided upon air travel, I'm going to say that yes, yes there are things that could be better than this."

Greg lightly smacked Mycroft's arm. "Well, looks like enlightening conversation is out the window for the driving portion of the trip. And you don't exactly strike me as an I Spy sort of man…"

Mycroft snorted.

Greg sighed. "Alright, time to bring out the big guns." He took off his seat belt so that he could twist around in his seat and to rummage through his bag.

He withdrew a small box. "I asked Clara and Jaime if I could borrow this. They said yes, and were appalled that you had never read it before."

"What is it?"

"Harry Potter and the Philosopher's Stone, the book on cd."

Mycroft groaned. "You force me into an eight hour car trip and hellish ferry ride, and now you want me to listen to a children's book?"

"Nah, come on, it's actually really good. I started reading them to Clara while Diane was in the hospital having Jaime, and I was hooked. Let's just listen to the first cd. If you still think it's rubbish after that we can go back to sitting in complete silence."

Mycroft eyed Greg wearily. He knew Greg had very high hopes for this trip, and he knew it wouldn't physically kill him to sit through a children's book on tape. And he really couldn't say no to those big brown eyes of Greg's.

"Alright, we'll listen to it."

Greg beamed.

"Oh, don't think I'm doing this for you," Mycroft said, feigning disinterest. "I just don't want Clara or Jaime to think any less of me for not having any knowledge of this Potter fellow."

"You old softie," Greg teased, smacking a kiss against Mycroft's cheek as he slipped the first disc in.

* * *

><p><em>Author's note: Just a tiny epilogue, but Mycroft is now a huge Potterhead. He read all of them within the next two weeks. And of course, he knew Snape was good from the very beginning. :) <em>


	38. Insecurity

_Based on Greenleaf's Daughter's prompts: insecurity, fear, embrace._

* * *

><p>Mycroft awoke to find himself only wearing his briefs and a pile of twisted sheets. He listened carefully and could just make out the sounds of Greg humming to himself in the shower. He stretched, relishing in the feeling of being sore in all the right places.<p>

After a few moments he threw off the sheets and made his way into the closet. He shuffled sleepily to the rack where he kept his shirts (arranged in order of the color spectrum) but stopped dead in front of the full-length mirror.

Mycroft stared in horror of his reflection. His middle was round and unsightly, and everything else seemed to sag and droop with unnecessary weight.

He remembered vividly the first time his weight had been pointed out to him. It had actually coincided with the moment Sherlock had begun to hate him.

_Sherlock and Mycroft had been about seven and ten respectively. The arrived at school in the usual black sedan, and Sherlock was proudly carrying his scale representation of the solar system, complete with each planet's moons and the noteworthy comets. Sherlock had spent hours working on the project, and was chattering away about the inaccuracies he had found in their textbook when a small group of older boys approached them. Mycroft moved to avoid them, but Sherlock carried on, oblivious. _

"_Hey freak, whatcha got there?" one of the boys asked with a sneer. _

"_A scale representation of the universe, although I had to make some tiny alterations in the estimates for Pluto so that the orbiting apparatus would work," he explained, showing them how the Styrofoam planets revolved around the sun._

_Mycroft knew that this was the wrong response for Sherlock to give, but instead of taking his usual place in defense of his little brother, he found himself backing away from the group to hide in the shadows of the building._

"_God, what a nerd!" one of them crowed. _

"_He's a freaky nerd!" another exclaimed._

_The first boy casually picked the model out of Sherlock's tiny hands and threw it to the ground. One of his cronies decided to one-up the gesture and began to stomp on the project._

_Sherlock's thin lips quivered as he looked down at his ruined project._

_Mycroft's fists clenched at his sides, but he found his feet firmly anchored to the concrete._

"_Aw, little freak's gonna cry about it now? Be a bloody man about it," one of them said, shoving the pale boy backwards. _

_Not wanting to be upstaged, the other boys encircled Sherlock and began hitting and kicking him. Mycroft's hand shot to his mouth, and he bit down hard on his knuckle to keep from making a noise, lest the bullies turn their attention towards him._

_A teacher ran up to the group, yelling. The bullies were dragged to the headmaster's office, and Sherlock refused any assistance for the cuts and scrapes he had sustained. _

_Mycroft came from out of the shadows, and placed a hand on Sherlock's shoulder. "I'll call mummy, she can come and take you home for the day."_

_Sherlock turned towards Mycroft, fire building behind his eyes. "Lot of good that will do!" Tears threatened to fall down his slender face. "You're rubbish as a brother Mycroft! You're fat and you're useless!" he blinked hard before turning on heel and running off._

_Mycroft had felt as if he had been slapped. He silently vowed that he would never let Sherlock down again, that as long as he lived he would protect his little brother. After making this silent promise, he slid his eyes down to his own mid-section. He had never really thought about his weight before. Yes, he was larger than Sherlock, but Sherlock was skin and bones. He pulled his jumper down a little further, to try and draw attention away from his protruding stomach._

_When they got home from school that day, Sherlock had not said a word to his brother. When Mummy had asked Sherlock how his project turned out, he scoffed and said, "Mother, astronomy is an utterly useless science. The distance between the planets is hardly worth wasting precious brain power on."_

Mycroft was snapped out of his silent reverie in from of the mirror by a pale pair of hands snaking their way around his offending midsection. He started lightly at the touch.

"G'morning love," Greg said, planting a small wet kiss on Mycroft's pale shoulder. He rested his cheek on the curve of Mycroft's neck. He gazed at their appearance in the mirror.

"Dear God, you are gorgeous," he said breathily.

Mycroft made eye contact with him in the mirror and saw the honesty on Greg's face.

"You…really think so?" he asked shyly.

"Absolutely," Greg said, tightening his embrace around Mycroft's middle. Mycroft looked at his reflection, and had a very hard time finding fault with his tummy with Greg's hands placed on it like that.


	39. Accident

_Based on Greenleaf's Daughter's prompt: accident_

Mycroft Holmes was not well acquainted with the concept of accidents. Of course he knew the dictionary definition of the word "accident", he wasn't daft, but he wasn't one for putting the usage of the word into practice on a daily basis. In his line of work there were no accidents. Accidents meant World War Three, or worse.

Mycroft had always stood firmly behind the idea of Freudian slips, that humans always mean exactly what they say, even if they themselves don't exactly know it.

As terribly unromantic as it sounds, Mycroft Holmes's proposal to Gregory Lestrade fell somewhere between an accident and a Freudian slip.

* * *

><p>He had been lurking on the outskirts of London's latest crime scene, like any ordinary day. Sherlock had been even more of an insufferable prat lately, and Mycroft felt compelled to keep him on a very short leash for the time being.<p>

Even though his intentions were to keep an eye on Sherlock, he found his gaze straying to Greg more often than not.

He could see that this case was taking a particular toll on his lover. The murder victim was an eight-year-old boy from his niece Clara's school, a classmate of hers. Though he retained his patented professionalism throughout the proceedings, Mycroft could see the pain behind Greg's eyes.

Greg had reached a phase in his career where he was almost completely able to separate his work persona from his home persona. At the end of the day he was able to shrug off the evils of the world and flop down on the couch and watch the match like any other man. The one chink in his armor was children. Greg loved children, and any time he dealt with a case involving children it shook him to his core, especially if they somehow reminded him of his niece or nephew.

Mycroft watched as Sherlock chattered to Greg, completely oblivious to the hell the DI was in. Greg nodded absentmindedly and raked a hand through his silver hair. He glanced up and saw Mycroft, and his face lightened a bit. He said something to Sherlock and approached the politician.

They ducked into the shadows and Greg allowed himself to melt into Mycroft's embrace.

"God, I can't do this," Greg said, the words slightly muffled against Mycroft's shoulder.

Mycroft rubbed his back soothingly. "You're doing fine. Is there anything I might do to assist the proceedings, or cheer you up in any way?"

"As astounding as your influence is, I don't think there's anything you could do right now for the case. And as for me, I'm pretty sure my sanity is a lost cause for the day."

"What if I asked you to marry me?"

They both froze. Mycroft's jaw dropped slightly, he had no idea where those words had come from. It hadn't been a conscious choice to say them. The words seemed to hang in the air for an eternity, swaying gently in the breeze.

Greg stepped back so that he could properly look Mycroft in the eyes. His lips quivered before uttering, "Erm, are you…asking?"

Though Mycroft wasn't sure how the question had escaped his lips, the idea had apparently originated in the most rational part of his brain. Standing before him was the most amazing man he had ever met, the person he wanted to be with until the day he died. He was a fool for not asking him the moment they had laid eyes on each other.

"Yes," he whispered. Mycroft stepped forward and took one of Greg's hands in his own.

"Gregory Lestrade, will you marry me?" The words were quiet, but seemd to echo through the dirty alleyway.

"Oh God, yes," Greg said, wrapping his arms around Mycroft's neck and kissing him deeply.


	40. Clothes

_Based on Greenleaf's Daughter's prompt: clothes._

* * *

><p>Greg felt utterly useless. He had grown so accustomed to Mycroft buying his posh clothes for him, he could hardly remember his own sizes.<p>

He stared blankly at the rack of tuxedos in front of him, too embarrassed to ask the clerk for assistance.

Reluctantly he pulled out his mobile and scrolled through his contacts, ready to admit defeat and have his fiancée pick out his wedding tuxedo for him. He knew that the taboo applied only to a groom seeing his bride's gown before the wedding, but he had a feeling that a groom seeing his groom's tuxedo before the wedding was probably not the luckiest practice either.

He slowly scrolled through his contacts, prolonging what seemed to be the inevitable. His fingers froze over one particular contact, the one he realized was his last hope.

He sucked in his breath and hit the call button.

Anthea answered on the first ring.

"Erm, Anthea? I need a favor."

She let out an irritated sigh. "I'm in the middle of international negotiations at the moment."

"I know, I know. It's just-" his voice cracked. "I'm trying to pick out a tux for the wedding and…you know what? Never mind. Sorry to bother you."

"Don't be daft. I'll be there in five."

* * *

><p>Anthea appeared exactly five minutes later with her Blackberry pressed to her ear, speaking what sounded like fluent Mandarin into the speaker. She nodded to Greg and began flicking through the racks.<p>

Within ten minutes she had picked out three different tuxedos and made another phone call, this time in Portuguese. She ushered him into the fitting room and posted herself outside.

Greg stood in front of the fitting room mirror trying to figure out the differences between the three tuxes in front of him. He shrugged and began undressing. Outside, her heard Anthea end her call and let out a lengthy sigh.

"So, erm, Anthea," he said, wriggling out of his jeans. "Thanks again, really. I know there are a thousand more important issues you should be dealing with at the moment."

There was silence outside the stall, and for a moment Greg thought she had left him.

"I used to think he was some kind of robot, you know," she said quietly.

"What?" Greg paused in the middle of pulling up the tuxedo trousers.

"I've worked for Mr. Holmes for five years, and only in this past year has he actually seemed…human to me. I had always admired his sense of duty, the way he never seemed to sleep or eat or really do anything other than run the government. But since he's met you…I mean, he's taken vacation time. He smiles, and I swear the other day I caught him whistling to himself. If I didn't know any better, I'd say you were a miracle worker. But," she paused. "I don't know. I've never really believed in true love before, but I honestly think you two are living proof."

Greg paused as the words sunk in. Then he quickly pulled up his trousers and opened the door to the stall. Anthea jumped slightly before he pulled her into a hug.

"God, are all the government PA's as wonderful as you?"

She chuckled lightly. "I'd like to think not."

She hugged him back, then stepped back to examine the suit.

She wrinkled her nose. "Oh no, definitely not."


	41. Wedding

_Sorry I missed a day of posting, this one was hard to write!_

_Based on Greenleaf's Daughter's prompt: wedding_

* * *

><p>Anthea officiated the ceremony. It only seemed right, and she was happy to oblige.<p>

It was small, intimate, held on the grounds of Holmes Manor. The guest list was kept short – Mr. and Mrs. Holmes, John and a very reluctant Sherlock, as well as Diane, Chris, and the children.

The sun shone brightly, but the April breeze still had a bit of a chill to it, causing Greg to shiver slightly as Anthea intoned the traditional text. He felt a small spark of warmth as Mycroft side-eyed him, which made Greg's smile widen.

Mycroft had been grinning from ear to ear all day, which in and of itself showed the momentousness of the occasion.

The rings were simple gold bands, plain except for the engravings inside each one. They had each chosen the engraving for the other's band, and both agreed that it was the most difficult decision either of them had ever made. Greg had finally decided that Mycroft's would have the word "Real" in neat cursive on the inside, a reference to Mycroft's fondness for The Velveteen Rabbit. Mycroft had recently finished the final installment to the Harry Potter series, and felt that "Always" would be an appropriate engraving for Greg's ring. Clara approved of these engravings very heartily.

The kiss was soft and sweet. They clasped each other's waists and leaned in carefully, committing every detail of the moment to memory. Their lips came together like old friends meeting after a long time apart. They broke away grinning, and Mycroft had tears of joy in his eyes.

As Anthea pronounced them married, they joined hands and laced their fingers together. As they turned to face their loved ones, Greg's whole body began to tremble with excitement and euphoria and fear and hope – in a word: love.


	42. Ring

Greg had always assumed that wearing a wedding ring would feel natural. He thought that once it was slipped on it would instantly bond to his skin and become a part of him.

If Greg were perfectly honest with himself, it was a little uncomfortable. His middle and little fingers rubbed against it in an odd way. When he drummed his fingers against his desk while waiting for an important phone call he found himself startled by the unfamiliar clicking sound it made when it hit the mahogany. It wasn't by any means unpleasant, it was just…different.

And people looked at him differently now. Not just Anderson, who stared at it completely gobsmacked for a full minute before Sally elbowed him in the ribs on Greg's first day back from the honeymoon (a quiet two weeks in the south of France). Everyone seemed warmer around him. More friendly. It was like he was part of some unspoken club now, a club that had been waiting for him for some time.

On the night of their one month anniversary, Greg couldn't sleep. He lay on his back staring at the ceiling with Mycroft's head on his chest.

Greg lifted his left hand close to his face, slowly turning the gold band with his index finger and watching in fascination as the ring caught a handful of the moonbeams trickling into the otherwise dark bedroom. He slipped it off, rolling the ring between his thumb and index finger. He wondered how it was possible for him to still be able to see the "_always_" engraving on the inner lip, even when the room was so dark. It was as if the word had some sort of internal light that glowed just for him.

Smiling to himself, he slipped the ring back onto its proper finger, flexing his hand slightly to help settle it.

Mycroft reached his hand up just then, catching Greg's and bringing it to his lips. He placed a small kiss over the gold band, his lips lightly tickling Greg's finger. Then he laced the fingers of his own left hand with Greg's, causing their rings to click together lightly. Suddenly, the weight of the ring on his finger felt like the most natural sensation in the world.


	43. Steam

_Based on Greenleaf's Daughter's prompt: trust_

_Contrary to popular belief, I am neither Shakespeare nor Steven Moffatt, so Sonnet 116 and Sherlock do not belong to me._

* * *

><p>Greg awoke with a cringe to the sound of his alarm clock.<p>

He blindly struck out and shut it off, then rolled over and stretched out on his side. He was momentarily disoriented by the empty pillow beside him before he remembered Mycroft's 2am emergency departure to a foreign country. (Just which foreign country was classified information, Mycroft had told him before kissing him goodbye.) Greg cursed the British government under his breath as he got out of bed and padded to the bathroom.

As silly as it was, Greg had somewhat hoped that Mycroft's work schedule would have lightened some since the wedding. He knew it was foolish to think so, but he felt sort of foolish sitting at their dinner table eating alone, fiddling with his ring absentmindedly.

He shuffled into the shower and stripped down before messing with the temperature dials. It took him several moments before he found that perfect temperature, right before the water burnt his skin. Greg loved taking long scalding-hot showers, Mycroft preferred to jolt himself awake with brief icy showers. For this reason they very rarely fooled around in the shower.

Greg smiled to himself as he thought this, doling out a small dollop of shampoo and lathering his silver hair. He had always been a quick fool-around-in-the-shower-before-work sort of man before Mycroft, instant gratification was never fast enough. But with Mycroft, sex was legitimately _making love_. Greg had always snorted at that term before, but now he completely understood.

It was remarkable, really, just how much they had changed in their time together. They had changed together, becoming a unit. Greg loved the security of this, but secretly wondered if this meant they would get bored with each other. The thought terrified him, and he put it from his mind as he finished up his shower.

He toweled off quickly, and stepped out into the steam-filled bathroom. He glanced at the mirror and stopped dead.

Words had appeared in the steamed glass, very familiar words. Shakespeare's words, to be exact.

"_Let me not to the marriage of true minds  
>Admit impediments. Love is not love<br>Which alters when it alteration finds,  
>Or bends with the remover to remove:<br>O no! it is an ever-fixed mark  
>That looks on tempests and is never shaken;<br>It is the star to every wandering bark,  
>Whose worth's unknown, although his height be taken.<br>Love's not Time's fool, though rosy lips and cheeks  
>Within his bending sickle's compass come:<br>Love alters not with his brief hours and weeks,  
>But bears it out even to the edge of doom.<br>If this be error and upon me proved,  
>I never writ, nor no man ever loved."<em>

_I love you Gregory. I'll be home soon. – MH_

Greg read and re-read the message several times, even as the steam began to disperse and the words faded. He began to giggle. Very soon the giggles became full guffaws, deep belly laughs that echoed through the tiled bathroom. Only Mycroft Holmes would take the time to finger-write Sonnet 116 in the bathroom mirror before he left, knowing how steamy Greg liked his showers.

Greg really was foolish, to think that Mycroft would ever stop surprising him.


	44. Dog

_Based on columbine-and-asphodel's prompt: surprise pet._

* * *

><p>"I'm home!" Mycroft called as he entered the foyer.<p>

"Hang on, don't come in here!" Greg yelled from the living room.

This worried Mycroft, he tentatively crossed to the living room, ignoring Greg's command. He pushed open the door and was nearly bowled over by a small ball of fur.

"Oof!" he said, rubbing his shin and looking down at the small creature before him.

"I told you not to come in here…" Greg grumbled.

They both watched the small puppy wriggling excitedly in front of them. A large red bow was hanging loosely from it's neck, and it kept trying to catch it and gnaw on it to no avail.

"Gregory, I hope you have some sort of explanation for this creature's presence in our living room," Mycroft said stiffly.

"Well, er," Greg stuttered, his face flushing. "Kinda. It was supposed to be a surprise for you."

Mycroft's eyebrows shot up.

"Well, it's kind of a funny story. Diane's friend's dog had puppies and we were talking and then it seemed like a really good idea to me to get one for you because it's a German Shepherd so it's going to grow up to be really intimidating-looking and dogs are actually supposed to be the best form of protection and I was thinking about how no one would want to even think about messing with you with a scary dog at your side and I'm just now realizing how stupid this idea was," Greg said in one breath. His cheeks turned pink and he looked down at his shoes.

Mycroft looked down at the puppy, a look of absolute confusion on his face.

"Mummy never let me have a dog growing up," he said slowly. "Sherlock has always been deathly afraid of them."

Greg's head shot up. "See? If nothing else it'll keep Sherlock from bothering us!"

Mycroft rolled his eyes and bent over, picking up the dog by it's armpits and lifting it up to eye-level. He held it at arms length, as if it were a bomb ready to explode. The pup squirmed in his hands, pink tongue lolling around in his mouth.

Mycroft gave it a stern look, and the dog stopped moving. He nodded satisfactorily.

"No ridiculous names. I absolutely loathe when people give their animals silly names, it's degrading."

Greg snorted. "Says Mycroft Holmes, son of Stavrick Holmes," he teased.

Mycroft shot him the same look he had shot the dog, and Greg reacted the same.

"Sorry. Can we keep him?"

Mycroft looked at his husband, into those big brown eyes they both knew he couldn't say no to. He sighed. "I suppose."

Greg grinned broadly.

Mycroft turned his attention back to the dog in his outstretched hands.

"Brutus. He looks like a Brutus, doesn't he?"

Greg resisted the urge to wrinkle his nose. He was still walking on eggshells.

"Sure. He definitely looks like a Brutus."


	45. Nap

"Lucy, I'm home!" Greg called in a singsong voice.

Sherlock had solved their most recent case in record time, meaning Greg had gotten to leave early. Mycroft was working from home today, which meant that Greg would spend his afternoon testing Mycroft's dedication to his work. He already had several interesting distractions planned by the time he got home.

He looked around for Brutus, who was usually the first one at the door. The pup was nowhere in sight, which was enough to distract Greg from his lascivious thoughts for a few moments.

He went into the living room and almost laughed out loud at what he found. Mycroft was dead asleep on the sofa, with an open folder on his chest and Brutus curled on his lap. The dog wagged its tail gently when he saw Greg, but made no motion to move. They had only had the dog for a few weeks, but it had already figured out his place was at Mycroft's side 24/7. Greg had taken to referring to Brutus and Anthea as "Mycroft's entourage", a title Mycroft hated. Greg was caught in between jealousy and joy, the dog barely gave him the time of day but the sight of Mycroft feeding Brutus dinner scraps when he thought Greg wasn't looking was positively endearing.

Greg yawned. On second thought, a nice afternoon nap might be just as enjoyable as testing Mycroft's sexual frustration limits.

He shrugged off his jacket and crossed to the couch, kissing Mycroft's forehead lightly.

"Mrphm," Mycroft mumbled.

"Scoot over," Greg whispered.

Mycroft sleepily obliged, giving Greg enough room to join him. Greg laid his head on Mycroft's chest and wrapped his arms around the other man's torso. Mycroft shifted into Greg's warmth, and Brutus arranged himself so that he was splayed over both of the bodies at his disposal.


	46. Anniversary

"Damn and blast!" Mycroft yelled, delivering a swift kick to the oven. Were the circumstances any different, he would have felt sorry for the childish act, it had been his fault to forget to preheat it. But in the given context, it felt good to be a bit violent with the household appliances.

Brutus came loping into the kitchen to see the commotion. The dog was growing rapidly with no signs of stopping any time soon; he was already at eye-level with Mycroft's kneecaps.

"Useless mongrel," Mycroft muttered. This he did feel bad for, and he apologetically stroked the dog's furry ears.

He turned back to the oven and set it to the correct temperature. The cake would just have to be delayed, he supposed. He let out a heavy sigh just as he heard the front door open.

"Shit," Mycroft grumbled, quickly popping the champagne cork and pouring it into the two prepared flutes.

"Hey love, I know you aren't the sentimental type and have prolly deleted it from your hard drive, but-" Greg stopped when he entered the kitchen. He carried a dozen red roses under one arm.

There was a pause.

"You remembered," Greg said, beaming.

Mycroft bristled. "How could I not? April 22nd, the most important day of my life. Really Gregory, I am not fond of excessive sentiment but I believe one's first wedding anniversary is hardly the sort of thing I would forget." He extended a champagne flute to Greg, taking the other for himself.

Greg was still awe-struck as he took the glass and handed Mycroft the flowers. They clinked the flutes together and each sipped at the fizzy drink. He looked around while Mycroft searched for a vase and caught sight of the dining room table, laden with their best china and lit by a gently-flickering candelabra. Two perfectly cooked lobsters sat on a bed of greens in the middle of the table.

"Lobster," Greg said to himself. He looked up, remembering the significance. "You made me lobster for our first date as well!" he cried, setting his glass down so quickly a bit of the golden liquid sloshed down the sides of the glass and onto the floor. Brutus lapped up the small puddle in a heartbeat.

Mycroft inclined his head. "Yes, I remember. Another sentiment I allowed myself. You'll have to beg my pardon though, the cake will be slightly delayed; there was ah- a mechanical error."

"Oh well, that just ruins the night right there," Greg said sarcastically, stepping towards Mycroft and giving him a small chaste kiss. "But I love you so much, I think I'm going to let it go."

Mycroft set his own glass down on the countertop gently before wrapping his arms around Greg's waist. "You're too kind to me," he said with a smile, pressing his forehead against Greg's. "Happy Anniversary," he whispered.

"Happy Anniversary," Greg replied, leaning in and kissing his husband deeply.


	47. Diet

"Mycroft, I love you, but if you keep up this diet nonsense I may have to kill you in your sleep."

The politician cast a bemused glance at his husband over his bowl of steamed tofu. "I told you, I really don't mind if you buy foods that I am not allowing myself. I have stronger willpower than the average person."

"You're telling me," Greg muttered under his breath. He poked his fork into one of the offending cubes and carefully brought it to his mouth. He chewed it thoughtfully, gagged a bit, and choked it down with a swig of wine.

"Bloody hell, that is not meant for human consumption!" he cried, gulping more wine.

Mycroft gave him a look. "It's health benefits are numerous," he said dryly, taking a bite of his own portion.

Greg knew that the only thing keeping Mycroft from making a face and spitting the tofu back into the bowl was his impeccable breeding.

"C'mon, let's go out and get Cornish pasties," Greg said smugly, pushing his chair back from the table.

"Gregory," Mycroft said, a pleading look on his face.

"My." Greg walked around the table and placed his hands on Mycroft's shoulders. "You are absolutely gorgeous and you are a completely healthy weight. This talk of dieting is crap and you know it. And I have a feeling it has something to do with Sherlock, which is ridiculous in itself. C'mon, a pasty will do you good."

He cupped a hand to Mycroft's cheek. The other man still didn't look convinced.

Greg sighed, then leaned in closer. "What if I agreed to help you burn off the excess calories afterwards?" he asked with a growl to his voice.

"And how do you propose to do that?" Mycroft asked, though from his slightly dilated pupils Greg knew he had a good idea of the answer.

"Well," Greg said slowly, leaning in so he was nearly nose-to-nose with the politician. "We could go for a jog around the block. Or do sit ups. Or-" he said, bringing a hand down to palm Mycroft's groin. "We could work on your flexibility."

Mycroft let out a small gasp and leaned in to kiss Greg. Greg deftly dodged it.

"Pasties first," he said with a grin.


	48. Music

_Based on a prompt by the lovely columbine-and-asphodel._

* * *

><p>Greg let out a huffy sigh and flopped down on the sofa. He was bored to the point where he could almost sympathize with Sherlock's shooting-the-walls-during-fits-of-ennui habits.<p>

Mycroft was in his study, on the phone with some world leader on a bloody Sunday afternoon, something that irritated Greg to no end.

Greg sighed again. Mycroft's office was soundproofed, so the flat was eerily silent. He debated turning on the telly, but just the thought of Sunday afternoon telly made him roll his eyes. His eyes flitted over the stereo. Might as well make it a Clash afternoon.

He hoisted himself off the couch and crossed to the beautiful stereo. He grabbed London Calling off the shelf and opened the tray. Mycroft had left one of his discs in. Greg glanced at it and nearly fainted dead away. After the initial shock wore off, he closed the tray back up and pressed play, a wicked grin crossing his face.

* * *

><p>Mycroft entered the room several minutes later, looking weary but satisfied. When he heard the music blaring from the stereo he glanced around wildly, his cheeks pinking.<p>

Greg laughed heartily from the couch.

"Please, please tell me Anthea or somebody left that here."

Mycroft suddenly became very interested in his shoes.

"Mycroft, are you a closet Marilyn Manson fan?"

Mycroft opened and closed his mouth before making a shrugging gesture. "Honestly I cannot explain it. I didn't even know of the man's existence until about two years ago, some disgruntled teenager sent me a death threat using his lyrics."

The mirth left Greg's face at the word "death threat", but Mycroft waved it off. "A childish prank, nothing more. But I had to research the Manson fellow thoroughly to make sure he wasn't a threat himself."

He seated himself on the couch, listening to a few bars of the song (Beautiful People) before continuing.

"At first, I thought it was a cacophonous racket. To this day I cannot listen to Angel with the Scabbed Wings without getting a small headache."

It took every ounce of Greg's self control to not fall into absolute hysterics at this last sentence. He mentally pictured the stabbing victim they had found in the Thames earlier in the week before to keep a straight face.

"But the more I listened, the more I understood," Mycroft said slowly. "The sheer delicious anger expressed in song…" he smiled wistfully. "It's just the exact opposite of the Holmesian attitude towards self-expression."

He finished and looked over at Greg, who was biting down hard on his own knuckle to keep from bursting out laughing. Greg tentatively extracted his knuckle from his mouth and attempted to speak. Instead, a choked guffaw came out and he broke down laughing.

Mycroft's face fell and his shoulder slumped. He stood up and walked out of the room while Greg desperately tried to compose himself.

"Wait, love!" Greg called, furiously wiping away his tears of mirth. He followed Mycroft into the kitchen and caught him by the waist. He wrapped his arms around Mycroft's middle tightly and burrowed his face in his shoulder blades.

"I'm sorry My," he mumbled into the politician's back.

Mycroft didn't say anything but allowed Greg to spin him around so that they were facing each other.

Mycroft still looked terribly embarrassed, which Greg found to be very endearing.

Greg chuckled lightly. "I'm not laughing at you, love. In fact, I absolutely love the fact that nearly a year and a half into our marriage you can still surprise the hell out of me. But just the mere image of the great Mycroft Holmes coming out of a phone conference and describing his love for Marilyn Manson. I couldn't help myself."

Mycroft quirked his lips a little, but it didn't reach his eyes.

Greg sighed. "Time to bring out the big guns, I suppose."

He dropped his hands and walked out of the room, leaving a very surprised Mycroft in his wake.

He came back in a minute later, a silver iPod in one hand.

He extended it to Mycroft wordlessly.

Mycroft looked at him quizzically.

"Look through some of my most played albums and artists."

Mycroft dubiously took the small device and began scrolling through the artists. After a few moments, a smile began to cross his face. The smile quickly turned into a grin, and the grin turned into ear-to-ear beaming.

"Yeah, Diane was a bit of a thespian in high school, and I'd go to all her shows and stuff. She's got a great voice actually, don't tell her I told you that. But I don't know, she'd have all these soundtracks lying around, and they're actually really good. Les Miserables always makes me cry though." He took a deep breath. "Basically what I'm saying is that your husband is a closet showtunes fan."

Mycroft bit his lip as he began to giggle. "We make quite the pair, don't we?"

Greg smiled. "Yes, yes we do."

They both laughed a little before Greg pulled Mycroft back into his embrace. "are we alright now?"

"Yes, we are alright."

"Shame. I was half considering throwing on some eyeliner and leather if you hadn't completely forgiven me."

Mycroft's eyebrows shot up. "Well now that you mention it, I am harboring a small bit of resentment…" he said, obviously enjoying this mental image.

Greg laughed and lightly swatted Mycroft's behind. "Cheeky boy. But I'll se what I can do."


	49. Stars

_Up on the roof. Join me when you get home. GL._

Mycroft stared at the text curiously before ascending the staircase to the roof of their building. The door at the top of the stairs stuck, and he had to push at it with his hip. After some maneuvering and swearing, the door gave and he found himself in the open air.

He blinked a few times to adjust to the London night. Once his pupils had adequately dilated, he made out Greg's form lying in the middle of the roof, not moving. His heart rate quickened for a moment, but Greg called out to him.

"Blimey, I never thought you'd get home. C'mere."

Mycroft crossed the roof and was relieved to see his husband stretched out on a blanket, sipping a beer and staring up at the sky.

"Never been up here, decided to come up and watch the stars for a while."

Mycroft smiled down at him. "Mind if I join you?"

Greg scooted over in reply. Mycroft got down and stretched himself out, hearing a few weary complaints from his joints. He placed a small kiss on Greg's temple before resting his head on the man's shoulder.

They lay in contented silence for several moments, admiring the few stars to be seen through the city smog.

"I've always wondered what's out there," Greg said dreamily. "When I was a kid basically all I wanted to be in life was to be the Doctor's companion. Tom Baker's, specifically."

Mycroft chuckled. "I never really watched the show myself, but I was under the impression you could only be his companion if you were shagging him."

"Nah, it's not a pre-requisite. Mind you, if we're talking David Tennant as the Doctor…" his voice trailed off and he made a somewhat inappropriate sound.

Mycroft laughed and lightly smacked his husband on the arm.

"Remind me to have David exiled from the country first thing in the morning."

Greg laughed. "Not necessary love. I'm afraid you're stuck with me for good." He pulled Mycroft in tighter and kissed the top of his head

Mycroft was satisfied with this answer, and snuggled closer to Greg.

Greg gazed up at the sky again, watching the pinpricks of light dance in the heavens. He felt Mycroft's breathing become slow and steady as the politician fell into a light slumber.

_I'd pick this over a trip in the TARDIS any day_, Greg thought to himself


	50. Child

Mycroft was by no means stupid. He knew that London had no such shortage of apathetic teens willing to babysit for paltry wages. There was no need for Greg to lie and say Diane couldn't find sitters at the last minute, when really he was offering wholeheartedly.

Mycroft knew what Greg wanted.

He could see it in his eyes any time they passed a park or a stroller. The wanting, the need.

It made sense, really. He was forty-seven, his "biological clock" (for lack of a better and more appropriate term) had been ticking for some time. It was natural for a man of his age to want to have a child of his own. Not that he would ever mention it to Mycroft. That was the difficulty, Mycroft gladly would have given Greg anything he wanted, anything at all, but Greg would never trouble him enough to ask for what he wanted. He was too giving in his own nature to ever be comfortable asking for anything.

Mycroft had no doubts that Greg would make an excellent father.

It was he himself that he was worried about.

Never before in his life had the thought of parenting occurred to him. He worked constantly, and had spent decades cultivating a cold and distant persona. Granted, Greg had broken down a part of that coldness, but it was still there. The image of himself pushing a pram was laughable at best, and downright terrifying at worst. He could deal with angry expatriates any day of the week, but hadn't the faintest idea how to handle an infant.

He was very adamant in this belief, until one night Greg came home from babysitting looking as forlorn as Mycroft had ever seen him.

"Gregory, what's wrong?" he asked, a small measure of alarm creeping into his voice.

"Er, nothing," Greg said, rubbing the back of his neck with the palm of his hand.

Mycroft raised an eyebrow.

Greg opened and shut his mouth a few times before reiterating his earlier statement.

"Well, I mean, it's really nothing. But tonight I took the kids on a walk to get ice cream. We came to a crosswalk and I reached out to take Clara's hand, but she pulled away and said only babies hold their uncle's hands. She then reminded me that she's nine now and very much not a baby. Then Jaime got upset and wouldn't hold my hand either." He sighed. "I dunno, I guess they just don't need their uncle anymore."

Mycroft's heart swelled for the other man.

"Gregory!" he cried, walking over and placing a hand on his husband's cheek. "Those children adore you, they'll always need you."

Greg shrugged, obviously not convinced.

For some reason, that did it for Mycroft. That shrug. Those sad eyes.

"Gregory, I've been thinking," he said slowly, removing his hand from Greg's cheek and placing it in his own pocket nervously. "Perhaps we might possibly discuss the idea of having a child of our own…" his voice trailed off and he looked at the other man expectantly.

Greg's jaw dropped. "Seriously?"

Mycroft smiled and nodded.

Greg's face lit up like a Christmas light display. "Oh My!" He moved to embrace the other man but stopped.

"My, are you sure that this is something you want? I mean, it's a big deal. I don't want you to agree to this if it's something you don't want and are just doing for my sake."

"Gregory."

Mycroft closed the distance between them and rested his forehead against Greg's.

"There is nothing I would like more in life than to raise a child with you," he said softly.

And in that moment, that was true.

* * *

><p><em>Wow, 50 chapters! I just want to say thank you to everyone who's stuck around to this point. You all are the best. Please keep reviewing and submitting prompts! :D<em>

XOXO

Brooke


	51. Surrogate

"Damn!" Greg said, hanging up his mobile.

"Bad news?" Mycroft asked, his face already fallen.

"Yeah. Diane's doctor told her surrogacy was basically not an option for someone her age. She sounded really upset, she actually really wanted to do it."

Mycroft sighed. "Well, I suppose having a surrogate we actually know is out of the option now. Pity."

They were in their living room, which was in a rather untidy state. Pamphlets and stacks of printed information about surrogacy littered the coffee table and spilled over onto the floor. Mycroft, Greg, and Anthea had spent the entire afternoon doing research, and now it looked like they were only in for more of a struggle.

Greg moved his laptop to the floor and scratched Brutus behind the ears. The dog lazily wagged his tail, sending up a gust of paperwork. "Who knew having a child could be so difficult? Those kids on MTV make it look so easy," Greg quipped.

Mycroft snorted. "Yes, I do believe I heard somewhere that unplanned pregnancies in homosexual couples are on the rise."

Anthea giggled, then looked apologetic.

"Actually sirs, if I may be so bold to butt in. There is a very obvious solution you seem to be ignoring.

They both looked at her. "What?" Greg asked curiously.

She looked back and forth between them. "Seriously?"

They glanced at each other confusedly.

She sighed. "For men with such important positions, you can be very thick at times. Me. I could be your surrogate."

Greg's jaw dropped. Mycroft straightened in his seat.

There was an uncomfortable silence, then both men spoke at the same time.

"Anthea, would you really do that for us?" Greg asked, slightly in awe.

"Most certainly not," Mycroft said sternly.

Anthea's eyebrows shot up and Greg turned to Mycroft.

"Why not?" they both asked.

Mycroft sputtered. "Anthea, I could not possibly ask a young unmarried woman like yourself to take on a burden like that, especially when you have already done so much for Gregory and myself as it stands."

She shrugged. "You didn't ask, I offered. I want to do it. My relationship status doesn't exactly look like it's going to change in the foreseeable future, and you've done quite a bit for me yourself sir. Remember Barnes at the office Christmas party?" She cocked an eyebrow.

"Well that was merely common courtesy."

"Still. I was just a common girl from a bad neighborhood before I came to work with you. Now I'm fluent in seven different languages, I'm the highest paid PA in the northern hemisphere, and I've dated royalty. This is literally the least I could do."

Mycroft bit his lip. "Are you absolutely sure of this?"

She stuck out her chin. "I wouldn't have offered otherwise."

Mycroft nodded slowly.

Greg grinned broadly. "That's brilliant!" he crowed, jumping up and pulling Anthea into a bear hug. She smiled and hugged him back. They stepped apart and there was a small awkward pause before Mycroft stepped forward to embrace her.


	52. Sonogram

The first sonogram appointment was, in a word, unconventional.

Of course, Mycroft had hired the best OB-GYN in the country, that went without saying. His office catered to the upper echelons of society, but it was pretty apparent that the sight of a politician, a detective inspector, and a personal assistant in the waiting room together was a new sight. Anthea was oblivious to the strange looks they were getting as she tapped away on her Blackberry (Despite Mycroft's insistence that the radiation from her phone could be harmful to the baby.). Mycroft tapped his foot nervously while Greg flipped through a pregnancy magazine absentmindedly, grimacing at an article about lactation.

A perky redheaded nurse came into the room and looked down at her chart.

"Potts? Katharine Potts?"

Greg flipped the page in his magazine and continued reading until Anthea cleared her throat. She and Mycroft were standing.

"That's us," she said, gesturing towards the nurse.

"But she said…" it dawned on him. "Anthea isn't your real name, is it?"

She rolled her eyes. "He agrees to have me carry his baby before he thinks to ask my real name." She looked at Mycroft pointedly. "You sure about this one sir?"

Mycroft chuckled. "Gregory, allow me to introduce you to Miss Katharine Potts."

She sarcastically offered her hand and Greg shook it in bewilderment.

Although, if Greg was confused, the nurse was even more so. She looked from the trio to her chart, then back again as she bit her lip and twisted a strand of her hair. "Erm, is everything alright?"

"Yes, yes, quite so," Mycroft said, allowing her to lead the way to the examination room.

* * *

><p>Dr. Jasper was a rather cold man, very businesslike and professional. The whole process seemed to put a damper on the excitement of the occasion, and by the time he was ready to do the sonogram Greg had noticed that Anthea was trembling slightly.<p>

This amazed him. She negotiated hostage crises on a daily basis and had been molested by more than one political aide and never bat an eyelash, and yet a simple sonogram had her shaking like a leaf. She and Mycroft were cut from the same cloth, that was for sure.

He reached out and squeezed her hand. She smiled and squeezed it back gratefully.

The doctor began to move the sonogram device over her still-flat stomach, and small lights danced across the screen.

Suddenly, there it was clear as day – an impossibly tiny human form with a pinprick of pulsating black in the middle.

"Is that…" Mycroft asked in wonder.

"Yes, that's the baby's heartbeat," the doctor said, examining the screen. He typed a few letters into the keyboard. "And from the looks of it, so far the baby is completely healthy, congratulations."

Greg sucked in his breath. Without taking his eyes off the screen he used his free hand to reach for Mycroft's.

"That's our baby," he whispered.


	53. Toy

_Based on Greenleaf's Daughter's prompt: Winnie the Pooh (specifically Piglet)_

* * *

><p>"Darling, I love you, but we are not naming our daughter Philomena."<p>

"Well I'm putting my foot down on Camilla. There's too much of a stigma around the name, especially in my circles. Ghastly woman."

Greg threw himself back on the sofa in defeat. They had found out the sex of the baby two weeks before, and had been desperately searching for an appropriate name since.

"I give up. Let's just leave the name on the birth certificate blank and call her 'Hey You!' whenever we need to get her attention."

The doorbell rang.

"Aha! Saved by the bell." Greg leapt off the sofa and sprinted towards the door.

"We aren't done here!" Mycroft called out. He turned his attention back to the book of baby names before him. "Thisbe…" he muttered under his breath, testing the syllables.

Greg came back into the room, a package in his arms. "No return address, but it looks like your people have already safety checked it."

He sat back down on the couch and opened the package.

"Oh, huh," he said, withdrawing a small stuffed animal from the box. "Look My, it must be for the baby. It's Piglet from…My? What's wrong?"

Mycroft was gaping at the toy. He cleared his throat. "There was no return address?"

Greg looked at the box. "Nope. Oh, hang on, there's a note in here. It says "For the infant." Greg looked at it curiously. "Hang on, I recognize that handwriting…"

"Sherlock," Mycroft said quietly.

"Yeah, that's it. Huh, not exactly what I would have imagined he'd send as a gift, not that I imagined him sending a gift."

Mycroft made a funny noise. Greg looked over and saw his husband had tears in his eyes.

"What the hell? What's wrong?"

Mycroft chuckled, wiping at his eyes. "I'm sorry, I should explain. When Sherlock and I were children, we were inseparable. When he was about two, he was incredibly fond of Winnie the Pooh. Mother used to joke that we were like Pooh and Piglet, that I was always going to be there to protect him." He took the toy from Greg, cradling it.

"Wow," Greg said quietly. "So, is this like him saying he'll be there for little Hey You?"

Mycroft bit his lip. "I think so."

Greg sat back and let out a low whistle. "I'd almost pity anyone who tries messing with our little girl with the Holmes men backing her up. _Almost_," he emphasized.


	54. Name

"You know, when you hired me all those years ago I'm pretty sure this was not in the job description," Anthea said dryly as she poked at her protruding belly.

She was lazily sprawled across the sofa in Mycroft and Greg's living room. Since she had undertaken the task of carrying the child her relationship to the pair had changed dramatically. Though she still served as Mycroft's personal assistant (although he refused to let her go anywhere that could potentially be dangerous) she was now a part of the family. While off-duty she allowed herself to relax from her usual uptight and professional demeanor, and quite literally put her feet up. She spent most of her time in Greg and Mycroft's flat these days; even though she lived in the same building they liked to have her as close as possible.

She propped herself up on one elbow. "You know he kidnapped me in order to offer me the job, right?" she asked Greg.

Greg looked at his husband bemusedly. "Is this true?"

Mycroft looked up from his parenting book innocently. "That's not exactly how I would describe it."

"One of your muscles pulled me into the towncar off a crowded street!" she cried, still keeping a smile on her face. "Then he proceeded to drive me to some warehouse in the middle of nowhere. How do you describe kidnapping, might I ask?"

"You weren't exactly kicking and screaming if I remember correctly. I believe my definition of kidnapping involves kicking and screaming."

She snorted. "You'll get your fair share of kicking and screaming once this little one decides to come out."

Mycroft sighed. "That's the only shame that comes of using your sperm Gregory. She won't innately have the Holmes grace and polish, I shall have to teach it to her myself."

"Hey, you were the on who pushed for them to use my…stuff. All about health and whatnot," Greg said defensively.

Mycroft chuckled and walked over to Greg, planting a small kiss on his forehead. He perched himself on the arm of Greg's chair. "I know love, I'm just teasing. Honestly I'm thrilled our little nameless daughter is going to have your beautiful eyes."

"Speaking of nameless," Greg said, perking up. "What about Pippa? I think it's cute, and that Middleton sister isn't a bad one to share a name with. Hell, I'd consider having a straight night with that one, or Kate for that matter."

Mycroft wrinkled his nose and slapped Greg's thigh lightly. "Lechery does not suit you Gregory. Neither does heterosexuality, in my opinion. But what do I know, I'm you're your husband."

Greg grinned and wrapped his arms around Mycroft's waist and started to pull him onto his lap, but froze midway.

"Hang on," he said, turning slowly to face Anthea, who was blushing and looking away from the pair's canoodling. "Kate. Katharine. Katharine!" he cried, nearly knocking Mycroft off his perch.

"Wha-?" Mycroft grunted, catching himself. He looked at Greg and followed his gaze over to the very startled Anthea on the couch. "Oh," he said quietly, understanding.

Anthea's eyes darted between the pair, completely baffled. "Yeah?" she asked slowly.

"Katharine," Mycroft said, slowly letting the name roll over his tongue.

"You two are acting weirder than normal. Yeah, my name's Katharine. What's that got to do with anything?"

Greg looked at Mycroft, who looked lost in thought for a moment before slowly nodding.

Greg turned back to Anthea, beaming. "We just found the right name."

This took a minute to sink in. Anthea's eyes grew wide and her jaw trembled slightly.

"You…you want to name the baby after me?" she asked timidly.

The pair nodded in unison.

"I can't believe it didn't come to us before," Mycroft said quietly. "Anthea," he said, then corrected himself. "Katharine. Since the day we met you have worked tirelessly to help me in any way possible, and you've quite literally saved my life on more than one occasion. And then you were instrumental in mine and Gregory's relationship and eventual marriage, and now this," he said, gesturing to her swollen stomach.

"Honestly, if that kid is half the woman you are, we'll be thrilled," Greg added.

Anthea looked between the two men, biting down hard on her lip.

"God, you have to go and make the pregnant woman cry!" she said as tears began to stream down her cheeks. Still crying, she lifted herself off the couch and went over to the pair, hugging each of them tightly.


	55. Labor

Mycroft and Greg awoke to the sound of a sharp knock on their bedroom door.

Both jolted upright, looked at the clock (which read 2:13AM), looked at each other, then looked at the door.

"Erm, who is it?" Greg asked sleepily.

"Ah, sorry to disturb you sirs, but I wanted to inform you that I've been in labor for a few hours now and the contractions are getting quite painful so I think I'm going to be headed to the hospital now if that's alright with you."

Anthea's voice sounded strained, and Greg was absolutely in awe of her composure. Both men were out of bed and dressed in an instant.

-0-0-0-

Anthea's composure was all but gone a few hours later in the delivery room. Her hair was matted and sticking to her forehead and she was swearing violently in Russian. Mycroft was openly weeping and apologizing for making her go through with this, and at one point promised to pay for a cushy retirement for her starting the moment the child came out. Greg had been in the delivery room for the births of his niece and nephew, so he at least had a frame of reference for the experience. He thought she was doing pretty well, considering. She was squeezing the life out of his hand as he whispered words of encouragement to her.

"One more Katharine, one more!" the doctor coaxed.

Time slowed down in that moment. Anthea made an incoherent screeching noise and squeezed Greg's hand so hard he was sure he felt the bones snap. Mycroft fainted dead away.

And then there was a cry.

A perfect, beautiful cry ringing throughout the room. The doctor lifted the baby up and into Anthea's arms, and she stared at it in amazement.

"Hey there little one," she cooed, as if she hadn't just finished a string of curses that would have made a Russian sailor blush.

She tilted the baby towards Greg, who's injured hand was dangling at his side as he stared at the infant, slackjawed.

"That's one of your daddies," she said, beaming up at Greg. She glanced over at Mycroft, who was being roused by a burly male nurse. "You'll meet the other one in a minute."

-0-0-0-

An hour later, the baby had been cleaned and swaddled and the mother was resting comfortably, as were the fathers. They were propped against each other in the hallway, watching their baby girl through the glass in the nursery.

Greg had his forehead resting in the curve of Mycroft's neck and his arm looped loosely around his waist. He shifted slightly, pressing closer to his husband.

"We had a baby, My," Greg whispered, still in awe of this information.

Mycroft nuzzled into Greg's hair lightly. "Yes, yes we did."


	56. Uncles

"Ohh, aren't you precious?" John cooed as Greg handed Katharine to him.

She had been released from the hospital the day before with a very weary Anthea, and it was time for the obligatory family meetings.

"I think she likes you," Greg observed, sitting back on the sofa next to Mycroft.

John smiled and rocked her gently. The soldier was quite the softie for babies.

Sherlock peered curiously at the small bundle. He tentatively extended his index finger, which she latched onto immediately, eliciting a surprised smile from the consulting detective.

"Would you like to hold her?" John asked Sherlock.

Greg felt Mycroft grow rigid beside him, and felt a similar uneasiness growing in his stomach.

"Ah, err," Sherlock mumbled, retracting his finger and putting his hands in his pockets.

"Oh come on," John insisted, extending the bundle towards Sherlock.

Sherlock carefully reached out and took the baby, awkwardly placing her in the crook of his arm. Greg sat on the edge of his seat, ready to catch his daughter if dropped.

Sherlock timidly moved his body in a similar fashion to John's rocking. His lanky frame swayed uneasily, but his hold on the baby was remarkably sturdy.

John stood back grinning. "I'm quite enjoying this sight. I think paternity suits you Sherlock."

Sherlock's eyes grew wide. "Oh no, no no no no." He quickly (albeit delicately) handed Katharine back to John. He glared at Mycroft. "You see what you've done Mycroft? Now you're giving John ideas."

Mycroft shrugged innocently. "I have no control over our dear Doctor Watson's wants. I believe that is more your territory Sherlock,"

Sherlock stuck his tongue out at Mycroft just as Katharine began to wail.

"You see what you've done Sherlock?" Mycroft asked dryly, standing up and taking the baby from John. "What's wrong little darling? Are we hungry?"

From the corner of his eye he saw John throw his hand across Sherlock's mouth to prevent him from making a comment about Mycroft's weight. Mycroft made a mental note to put John in line to be knighted.

"Yeah, she's hungry," grumbled Anthea as she stumbled into the room. She was wearing a fluffy blue dressing gown and her hair was rumpled with sleep. She yawned and plucked the squalling infant from Mycroft's arms before settling herself on the sofa and yanking her blouse open to reveal a pale and leaking breast. The four homosexual men in the room blanched simultaneously.

She rolled her eyes. "Seriously?"

John cleared his throat. "Well, erm, I think it's best we get going. We need to pick up some milk and some chromium permanganate solution. But if the little one ever needs babysitting her Uncle John and Uncle Sherlock are – no, second thought, just Uncle John is more than happy to watch her."

Sherlock pouted. "John I have one of the highest IQ's on the planet, I believe that I am capable of caring for an infant for a short period of time."

"Yeah, I'm not sure about that," John said as they let themselves out.

Mycroft quirked an eyebrow at Greg. "Uncle Sherlock? I'm getting very uncomfortable with the idea of him being in close proximity of Katherine. Ever."

"Yeah, that's what I'm thinking," Greg said, leaning over and running a finger through the small tuft of hair on the baby's head while she nursed.

* * *

><p><em>Hey gang! Just a head's up, I'm going to be wrapping this fic up in the next couple days so I can focus on writing for NaNoWriMo. If you have any remaining prompts or suggestions, now's the time to let me know!<em>

_As always, reviews are like sweet Mystrade snuggles on a cold day._


	57. Wax

_Based on columbine-and-asphodel's prompt: waxing._

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><p>Greg walked into the living room, where Mycroft was unsuccessfully trying to burp Katharine.<p>

"Hey My? Weird question but uh, would it…er, do anything for you if I started manscaping?"

Mycroft blinked and continued to rub small circles into the baby's back. "I beg your pardon?"

"You know. Waxing." He cocked his eyebrow suggestively so that Mycroft would understand.

"Gregory!" Mycroft cried, covering Katharine's ears. "You cannot possibly imagine that we are going to have this conversation in front of our infant daughter!"

As if on cue, Katherine chose that moment to expel the pesky gas bubble. Mycroft cooed to her and Greg rolled his eyes.

"Alright, fine. Put her to bed and then we'll have this conversation."

Reluctantly, Mycroft walked to the nursery and laid Katharine down. Greg impatiently tapped his foot in the doorway. Once Mycroft was sure she was settled, he kissed her forehead and tiptoed out, shutting the door tightly.

Greg exhaled. "Okay, would you answer the damn question? Waxing – yes or no?"

"I don't know. I've never been especially fond of the look but you manage to pull everything off so I don't see why not. What's all this about?"

Greg slumped back in his armchair. "Well we haven't exactly fooled around or anything since the baby was born, that was three months ago. I just wanted to be able to get your attention again, that's all."

"Gregory," Mycroft said, perching himself on the arm of the chair. "You are an impossibly gorgeous specimen. When you got back from jogging yesterday in those shorts and that tight t-shirt I nearly dropped the baby. You will never lose my attention. We've just been busy, that's all. Between work and caring for Katharine we hardly have any time to eat or sleep let alone become intimate."

He ran a hand through Greg's silver mane. Greg leaned into the touch.

"Yeah, I suppose you're right. Come here," Greg said, tugging Mycroft into his lap.

The pair embraced for a moment before Greg gave Mycroft a small peck on the lips. He tried to move his head back, but Mycroft followed and kissed him back, hungrily. He dragged his tongue across Greg's lower lip, Greg's mouth opened slightly in surprise and Mycroft took advantage of this to claim purchase on Greg's own tongue. Greg let out a throaty growl and ran a hand over Mycroft's backside, squeezing lightly.

Mycroft nipped at Greg's lip and pulled back. "Bedroom. Now."

Greg obliged, and very nearly sprinted to their boudoir. Mycroft followed behind, quickly snatching the baby monitor as he went and turning it on. He couldn't just neglect Katharine, no matter what the circumstances.

When he reached the bedroom Greg had already removed his shoes and was tugging off his jumper.

"Would this be a bad time to mention that I sorta went through with that waxing thing before I got around to asking you about it?" he asked, once the jumper had been conquered.


	58. Work

Greg knocked on the door to Mycroft's study.

"Yes, come in!" Mycroft called.

Greg balanced the tea tray he was holding on one hand before maneuvering the door open.

"I made you some tea and biscuits love and – what the hell?"

Mycroft glanced up at his husband over the top of his spectacles. "Watch your language around Katie, dear."

Greg began to laugh. He couldn't help it really, the sight was just too perfect. Mycroft Holmes, unofficial ruler of Great Britian was sitting at his desk doing paperwork. Underneath his rich mahogany desk he had laid out Katharine's blue blanket, and the baby was set square in the middle of it, contentedly gnawing on her teething ring.

Greg was doubled over laughing, tears streaming from his eyes and his hands clutching the sides of the tea tray for dear life.

Mycroft looked at him and furrowed his brow. "Might I ask what's so funny?"

Greg couldn't breathe, he just lamely gestured towards the baby.

Mycroft glanced down. "Katharine, I do believe your other father has gone mad. What a pity." He leaned down and scooped up the infant, cradling her in his lap.

Greg had finally calmed down enough to breathe more easily. Still chuckling. He made his way over to the desk and sat down the tray.

"There's just so many punchlines in my head right now, I can't even begin to know where to start. What, are you teaching our infant daughter the proper way to word disarmament treaties?"

Mycroft rolled his eyes. "Hardly. But it's never too early for a take your daughter to work day. I think this one has politics in her future."

Greg groaned. "No, I cannot possibly have two politicians in this family. You are infuriating enough as is."

Mycroft bristled, but didn't respond.

Greg walked around the desk and plucked the girl from Mycroft's lap.

"C'mon Kitten, let's go watch the match shall we? I'm definitely sensing you're going to be an ace footballer."

It was Mycroft's turn to groan. "My God," he said, taking off his glasses and massaging his temples. "This poor child has no idea what she's in for with us as parents, does she?"


	59. Park

The sky was just starting to get a pink tinge at the edges when the foursome set off.

The November air had a pleasant sort of chill to it, and Greg was thoroughly enjoying the rosy flush that was spread across Mycroft's cheeks. He kept sneaking glances at him out of the corner of his eye as they walked. He still carried himself in the same manner as he did at work, the only difference was that his left hand was clutched around Brutus's leash instead of his usual umbrella. Greg smirked when he looked at the dog, which walked with the same dignity and carriage as his owner even with a tennis ball in his mouth.

Though Greg didn't know it, Mycroft was also casting glances at him. As silly as Mycroft thought it, he couldn't help but swoon a little at the sight of Greg pushing Katherine in her stroller, stopping once to pick up her stuffed Piglet when she dropped it onto the sidewalk.

There was no one else at the park when they arrived, which was just the way they liked it.

Greg smiled at Mycroft. "Here, I'll trade you."

Mycroft nodded and handed Greg the leash and knelt down next to the stroller.

"Would you like me to push you on the swings Katie Cat?" he asked the two year old.

She nodded vigorously and jumped out of the stroller, clutching Piglet to her chest. She reached up and took Mycroft's hand as they made their way over to the jungle gym.

Greg took off Brutus's leash and extended his palm, into which the dog gratefully dropped his tennis ball. Greg wound up his arm and threw the ball as hard as he could across the green expanse of park. Brutus bounded after it with remarkable speed and was back with it in a flash. Greg sighed, he really shouldn't have offered to trade. His arm was going to be killing him in the morning. Reluctantly he took the ball from the dog and threw it again. While he waited for the dog to return the ball he watched Mycroft and Katharine.

After settling her into one of the toddler swings with the little safety girdle, Mycroft had started to gently push his daughter. She looked bored with the small pushes he was giving her, and was egging him on to push her higher. This made Greg grin. As much as it terrified him, he absolutely loved that she already had both of her fathers' taste for adventure. One more reason to keep Sherlock away from her, even though Greg begrudgingly had to admit to himself that she was completely infatuated with his stuffed Piglet gift to her. She carried it everywhere she went; often dangling him from her left hand in the same way Mycroft carried his umbrella, which Greg found unbelievably endearing.

Finally Katherine managed to coerce Mycroft into pushing her higher, and the resulting laughter from her rang throughout the empty park. She kicked her legs as she swung, reaching a hand out as if she could touch the sky. Mycroft's smile looked to be dangerously close to splitting his whole face in two.

Finally Brutus tired of the game and flopped down on the grass. Greg wandered over to the playground set, where Mycroft and Katharine were taking turns going on the slide.

"You lot ready to go?" he asked.

Katharine looked troubled by this question, but very tired. "Can we come back tomorrow?" she asked.

Greg looked at Mycroft, who took out his blackberry to check his schedule. He looked at it for a few moments, made a face, then nodded. "I'm supposed to have dinner with Hugo Chavez, but he's ghastly bore and I've been dying for a reason to get out of it. This seems as good as any, doesn't it?" he asked, looking down at Katharine.

She furrowed her brow, having only understood about a third of what her father had just said, but from his smile she could reasonably deduce that she had gotten an affirmative.

She nodded very businesslike and climbed back into her stroller, tucking Piglet in beside her.

"Brutus!" Mycroft called, and the dog came loping over.

Greg took Mycroft's free hand with his left and pushed the stroller with his right as they made their way back home through the London twilight.


	60. Perfect

_Based on columbine-and-asphodel's prompt: Silly putty sculptures made by a certain small girl-child_

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><p>"Would you quit that?" Greg asked irritatedly.<p>

Mycroft made a face before pocketing his Blackberry. "Sorry," he mumbled.

"Christ, I can never get you to myself can I? Before it was always just work, but now I have to share your attentions with work AND a precocious three year old."

Mycroft reached across the table and squeezed Greg's hand. "I'm sorry dear, but you know how I worry. Especially when Sherlock's in the picture."

"Technically it's John who's babysitting, he'll make sure Sherlock doesn't do any weird experiments on her."

Mycroft's eyes grew wide. "I hadn't even thought of that possibility!" he shrieked, digging his mobile out again.

Greg deftly snatched it and put it in his own pocket. "Nope. Tonight is going to be nothing but you wooing me like you used to."

Mycroft sighed. "If she ends up missing a limb, it's on your conscience," he said somberly.

Greg jumped as he felt Mycroft's Italian loafer run across his ankle, stroking lightly.

"That's more like it," he said with a grin.

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><p>For the next few hours the pair flirted like teenagers. They shared a desert, went to a movie and made out in the back of the cinema, and walked home hand in hand.<p>

Greg sighed contentedly as Mycroft fished for his keys.

"Do I get my goodnight kiss now or later?" the detective inspector asked playfully.

Mycroft eyed his husband as he turned the key in the lock. "You'll be getting a bit more than a kiss in a few minutes, I'll wager."

Greg swatted at Mycroft's backside as they made their way into the foyer. "That'd better be a promise, Holmes."

They entered the living room, where John was watching a match and Sherlock was stretched out asleep on the sofa.

"Hey you two," John said, flicking the telly off. "How'd it go?"

"Fantastic," Greg said with a grin. "Is Kitten asleep?"

John nodded. "Tried to get her off at a decent hour, but this one had different ideas," he said, gesturing to the sleeping consulting detective.

Mycroft rolled his eyes and went to check on Katie.

"So, what did you all get up to in our absence?" Greg asked.

"Quite a bit actually. We played hide-and-go-seek for a bit, then Sherlock pulled out a Winnie the Pooh dvd, he won't tell me why he owns that and it sort of worries me. We watched that for a while, then she pulled out the play-doh and started making little snowmen." John gestured to a little family of lopsided clay snowmen on the coffee table. "Sherlock thought that was boring so then he helped her make a clay model of a strand of DNA, which interested Katie more than is probably healthy but she's related to him so what are you going to do?" he asked, running a hand through Sherlock's messy curls.

Sherlock made a groaning noise and curled into John, muttering something incoherent.

Mycroft reentered the room. "She's fast asleep," he said to Greg.

"Well I think we should be taking our leave then, let you two kids finish your date night," John said with a smirk as he gently shook Sherlock by the shoulder.

Sherlock sat bolt upright and rubbed his eyes.

"I wasn't sleeping," he muttered, stifling a yawn.

John laughed and began to steer Sherlock towards the door.

"Wait," Sherlock said softly, turning to face Mycroft.

He looked down at his shoes for a moment before looking back up at his brother. "She's…she's perfect, Mycroft. Smart as a whip too. I wouldn't have thought it, but I'm sort of delighted to be an uncle," he said sheepishly.

Any other pair of siblings would have cried and hugged at this point, but the two Holmes brothers instead solemnly nodded before Sherlock turned and made his way for the door.

"Christ," Greg said under his breath in wonderment. "Katharine's got magical powers, doesn't she?"

Mycroft nodded faintly, still staring at the door his brother had passed through moments before.

"Hey," Greg said, nudging Mycroft's elbow. "You're not too emotional to shag me senseless are you?"

This drew Mycroft out of his reverie. "Never," he said with a slow smile.


	61. Famly

"Papa!" Katharine cried gleefully as she ran into Mycroft's outstretched arms.

"Hello sweetheart!" Mycroft exclaimed, lifting her up to give her a kiss.

She giggled.

"You're home early," Greg remarked, entering the kitchen.

"Peru was more easily coerced than we had expected," Mycroft said nonchalantly.

Greg rolled his eyes. "Katie love, go get the pictures you drew for Papa."

The little girl tore herself from Mycroft's embrace and raced to her room.

"Don't I get a kiss?" Greg asked dryly.

Mycroft grinned and pulled Greg in. Their lips fit together perfectly after years of practice, but neither had gotten used to the delicious sensation each kiss caused. They allowed themselves to get a little too caught up, however. They did not hear Katharine re-enter the room or pad over to the pair. They did not break apart until the girl impatiently tugged on Mycroft's jacket with a melodramatic "A-hem!"

They jumped apart and the tips of Greg's ears went pink.

Katherine pouted in that way only a four year old can.

"Papa, I wanted to show you the pictures I drew for you."

Mycroft knelt down beside his daughter. "I'm sorry Katie Cat. Let's see what you drew."

The little girl began to ramble about her artistic inspiration for her picture of a giant purple and orange butterfly. Mycroft listened to her intently, and Greg had to laugh. Maybe Peru wouldn't have given up so easily if their leaders could see the great Mycroft Holmes sitting on the floor of his kitchen listening to his "Katie Cat" talk about butterflies. Greg's snickering was cut short however when Kate pulled another drawing from behind the first. He had helped her with the butterfly picture, but had not known that she had drawn another. Judging by her devilish grin, that was the way she planned it.

"This is for both of you," she proudly announced.

It was clear that she had put as much effort as she could muster into this one.

The paper had been cut into a lopsided heart, and in the center stood three stick figures, all holding hands. As if it wasn't clear enough who they were supposed to be, stick-Mycroft held a black umbrella in his free hand and stick-Greg had glittery silver hair. Stick-Katie was in between the two with a frilly pink frock and a tiara. The word "famly" was written above the threesome in the same silver as Greg's hair.

Greg couldn't pinpoint why, but it was the most beautiful thing had ever seen. He told Katie so, and she beamed proudly as she stuck it to the fridge. She gave each of them a hug before skipping into the next room.

Mycroft stood up and placed an arm around Greg's waist. He too was still staring at the picture. Greg gently pressed a kiss to his husband's temple as he silently thanked God for sending him the most perfect "famly" he could have asked for.

_Fin_

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><p><em>AN: I'm getting a tiny bit emotional about posting this last chapter, but NaNoWriMo starts tomorrow and I know I can't keep up with this as well. Thank you all so much for your kind words and magnificent suggestions along the way! I promise I'll be back soon with an Anthea-centered fic, so keep an eye out for that in the next month. _

_If you're craving more Mystrade goodness, definitely check out PlantInABoot's "101 Gestures", she's absolutely terrific. _

_XOXO,_

_~B._


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